False Prophet

The road kill
of your thoughts
trips you up,
and spills you out
on hot asphalt
and bright pins,
and shards of black glass,
dug deep under your nails.
you spin and weave trouble
like spiders in jars,
where legs tangle
and eyes grow beady
in the tight air
with wasted time
run amok
like a twisted clock
the black threads of your lies
pulled taut
with your sharp white teeth
hanging like old news
in the corner,
as withered as your heart
spat out like demon seed
in someone else's head.