The Tarantula's Dire Motive Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Here, the deepest night
Holds the same trivialities.
I can hear the crooning
Of the clocks
A dismal machinery
Crafted to steal everything.

I can feel my bones
Rattle and sometimes
I can hear oblivion
Screaming my name
In a terrorizing macabre.
I can hear my bones
Fracture in a moribund
Stifle - a tarantula's dire motive.

A crude depiction of this
Is that sometimes
I feel dead in my sleep:
Jealous, dying
Or sometimes nonchalant
And trying
To make sense out of
The origins of fire
The tarantula's ire
Is coming and it's either
Salvation is far-flung
Or under repair.

Here I am
Kneeling in front
Of this tarantula
Uttering, spewing
As it points its
Spinerette for a
Derision - a tentative loss
Tantamount to
Seeing my soul
Shatter,
And shatter
And shatter
And break
Into slivers -
A death, inceptive
As it looms:
The tarantula's dire
Motive.