An Arachnid's Meal Poem by Mark Heathcote

Poets are like woodlice
Ruminating away at life
What they build is a place
For air; that abridged space
Multifaceted
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-marrow
Worn out cartilage
Is left out here on display,
Every mouth licked morsel.
On a 90° degree—death angle
Kill swing, cogitates its end.