I met a black widow, weeping

crimson tears from 8 wrists

who spun sorrow into silk

twisting into dew,


dark souled soliloquies,

sailed out from humble mandibles

denying the web she made was hers,

and I,

I lay wrapped in wanton webs

screaming into emerald twins

who refused to accept that

the fly who wore her tears

was not afraid of beating his wings

hard enough to prove that even the

strongest web can break.

And it did.

The widow still shone black

but her wrists wove words

of clarity and beauty and the hairs on her head

waved while she sang syllables into the ears

of the one who she thought would perish

but didn't.

He lay beside her, wrapped up in wonder

of she who spun mutual silence into

artifacts of affection.



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