The Miller And The Mice

The Miller And The Mice

The miller worked where the river groaned,

With stones that screamed when night drew near.

His lantern shook with every breath,

As shadows gathered thick with fear.

The mice came first with silver eyes,

They watched him from the sacks of grain.

Their teeth like needles in the dark,

Their whispers tapping at his brain.

He heard them counting every step,

Across the floor, across his soul.

Tiny prayers scratched into the dust,

Like secrets gnawing out a hole.

At night the mill would grind itself,

No hands upon the turning wheel.

The mice stood tall upon their hind legs,

Teaching hunger how to feel.

They spoke his name in broken squeaks,

They wore his thoughts upon their skin.

Each promise chewed, each sin remembered,

Every way he failed to win.

The river stopped, the lantern died,

The stones grew warm with quiet screams.

The miller knelt, reduced to crumbs,

A feast prepared by careful schemes.

By dawn the mill stood clean and still,

No blood, no bones, no sound, no cries.

Only fat mice sleeping in the grain,

And the wheel turning on its lies.

No more miller, the mice made sure.

Nothing here is as it was before.

The mice stand tall, the fight is won.

Killing the miller was so much fun.