Spiderwebs mingle with the strands of her hair.
Tiny arachnids hang from her ears like jewelry.
She lives behind the curtain,
Ironing her spinning robes.
She sells it;
the stuff that defines her;
striking together thoughts that don't mix well;
the substance that poisons unsuspecting poets;
Greened Death.
I need a corner to cry in;
for I know there's no way to reach her mind;
being altered, it is a stranger unto itself.
[21:26|15.12.011] ©c.thomas.carter
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