Tom Harding

2.38 Am

The wind in the trees wakes you,
crossing and uncrossing hands
against the wall.
In the corner the spider weaves in darkness
diligently perfecting his
only means of expression.
He's clinging to it with his life
knowing the slightest breeze
might blow it all away.

Topic(s) of this poem: insomnia, night

Poem Submitted: Thursday, March 1, 2018

Form: Blank Verse

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