No Fans Left

My name is Black. My mouth is diseased. I walk on walls behind your back. I've come for your soul. You had it out on lease. (You forgot.) Stop tending to the chickens, Or don't stop tending to the chickens. Either way there are no fans left for anything to be hitting them. But if they were still around they would get hit by you-know-what. So don't touch me. Don't tick me off. I send the weak and injured off screaming in horror. Mostly I'm just misunderstood, though. I call a spade a club. I turn maestros into minstrels,. Melancholy into minestrone. I eat sadness and vomit out anger. I'm a riot at parties for the first five minutes, Then I'm the mom you didn't call, The key you left in the car, The ringing in your ear, The stinging in your throat. I'm the faint chittering you hear Somewhere in your bed, Somewhere near your head.