An arachnid’s meal
Poets are like woodlice
Ruminating away at life!
What they build is a place
For air; that abridged space
For a spider's snare!
Poets are like damselflies’
Flitting here - then there!
The world is dammed,
Petrified into, living stone.
The only thing left, now, is
His, words an arachnid’s meal.
Every bone sucked morrow
Worn out cartilage!
Is left out here on display,
Every mouth licked morsel.
With its 90° degree—death
Kill swing, cogitates its end.
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