your words are nothing to him.
he lives only by the claw,
his power is not knowledge
but the rippled fury, bestial,
of his frolic
through mud and your favourite novel.

he tastes the scraped sheep in parchment-
the beast tamed in every tome.
communes with mycelium dripping in the walls-
he smells the dust, the mold.

your philosophy will tuft his den.
he will shriek in no one's language,
he will burrow behind the stacks,
he will nest in leather bindings,
he will hiss,
he will shit
on every page.

did you remember to lock the door?

Penned by my hand on the 4th of Phaestian, in the year 938 AF.