A lonely ledge, neath window’s glass,
spider spun web from silken cache
A solitude, brown framing black,
shiny hue and matte shellac
A lonely man, neath candle’s light,
spent his days bringing night
He lives alone, he took no wife,
lived counting years to afterlife
Sharp spider’s eyes, and readied legs,
showed its life is purpose-led
A ragged sigh, like breathing dread,
a lonely man thinks of his bed
Stock-still stood spider, felt trembling threads,
will catch food now, be later fed.
One thinks of future, one of what’s said,
one living life, one walking dead.
With instinct’s arm, and repaired web,
spun silk welcome, a prey's regret.
One living virile, one impotent,
as old man stumbles, the prey’s beset
One makes welcome with table set,
one locks his door with steel barrette.
About the Creator
Away With Words
I write about things to make them feel real. Some play with hearts, I play with words. Metaphor is a 3-Dimensional conversation. Ever feel like what you write has always existed somewhere timeless, waiting to be written?
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