Spider Webs

They’re found in the breaking skin I leave on my hands,

inspiration falling with every flake

The shard of glass by my window,

A mirror that only reflects the shadows in the corners of the room.

An antiquarian dawns a hat,

and reminds me of a day I wasn’t alive,

where a girl sat with her mother

in the third class compartment of a train.

I like to rant to watered-down shampoo bottles

foamed bubbles that tangle in my hair

as I sing to life.

The crinkling band of flames

under our mantle on Christmas eve

watching as the gypsy dancer

with the silk orange scarves and yellow veils

dances for eternity

the hypnotising amber eyes

lulling me to sleep.

There’s a dusted library

sleeping under a leaf-lit canopy

books laid out like birds with broken wings

with overgrown flowers on the pages.

Words rambling on a page

hoping they’ll connect

and collect like rain water on a web

into the perfect image.