April 2, 2015

#NaPoWriMo 2015 no.2

illustration by Gustave Doré


Arachne's dawn is a fibrous reach

(Athena had empathy for her)

she sleight-of-handed 
herself away 
before daylight 
broke open 
Arachne's fate 

her free will was
somewhere between 
a soul within ego 
and amniotic clock-ocean-fungi in bloom 

mouth breathers

essence, she thought 
even purely inspired 
if it is born
without infinity 
is only  
a vague memory 
a toothy somewhat

Athena admired 
this weaver's belief 
in herself, though
she thought
what a tendril wrought 
root poem 
she is 
leaving iron 
in the fire 

-------------------

where the webbing went

a balm cool night 
dagger waxing 
full womb 
searches 

open palms
seed and inspire  
sped away 
from reality... 

paused 
clause-d 
hinges 
unwind

sensory
desire distracts
you from certain 
realities rearing 
the ugly head 
another horseman 
rides, cloaked, fed 

underbelly soft hairs 
mostly out of sight 
self loathing

what do we do to make ourselves 
take a sip of poison as comfort 
is this the caged narrative we signed off on

landing in dark 
most fun when 
it rains reigns 
calculated survival(s) 
archetypal, formless
but most assuredly 
real to you...

especially when
talking to one's self 
in poem
uttered 
sounding mad 
dare express 
a loud 
anything 
that can
rein us in 

applied 
hem lines
seams, glides 
and spent 
embroidery…

hooded rider 
is wayward test, 
magnetic charm

she'd kill you 
with only 
her eyes 
let alone 
her flesh 
and rubies 

wielded 
she does deft death
with guile(s)
well water alone 
can not draw you 
back to life

un-ribbon-ing blows 
once you chanced 
drinking you in...

inside your last breath 
you realize just why
her weaves are so fine 
you notice how 
she has gathered 
your shadows 
while looming 
near enough 
to your fading 
warm pulse 
to watch 
your bones 
be buried

slow throw spill
spindled to 
what you had
expressed as noise 
held quiet 

each thread, 
it seems
was not  
running from
conversation

blood and time 
began to beg 
for skeleton supper 
long before 
we ever knew to 
speak in poem

here, where 
words are 
caught shimmer 
constructs and bombs
you are 
permanently scented
with every you 

you'll empty 
into wanting 
what you 
cannot have

desperation 
lingers 
long past 
last call

"we know 
we know", 
scream 
the chains 
rattle, whisper 
and rust,

"her dawn is strand fine silver reach" 



EJR ©

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