A life spent spinning.
That is the common trait
shared by spiders,
And me.

I’m sure every spider would say,
If only we would listen,
“there is no greater achievement,
Than a well spun web.”

The first giddy rush
As you hang on a fragile thread
That may
Or may not hold
To the scrutiny of nature.

You create  a delicate structure
Of twisted phrases
Hung with dewy embellishments
To distract and awe your audience.

But over time it falls apart
Foundations break
And loose ends show
To disrupt the believable symmetry.

And then you must patiently wait
Until a clumsy foot or hand or arm
Sweeps through and tears it down
Freeing you from the façade.

Just make sure dear spider
That when your web,
Is broken and blamed.
You were not sitting in its centre
Letting it crash down upon you.

I was young once,
and I wanted more.
I spent my youth.
I went into overdraft,
I borrowed and owed it.
I had shady exchanges in back alleys.
They broke my legs,
for my youth.

It went so quickly,
I had such big plans.
I had a budget,
I swear.
It’s just so hard,
with all that youth,
not to splash it around,
show it off.

And now I’m old,
with nothing to show,
but debt up to my eyes,
and crippled legs.

That was it.
Right there, did you see it?
A fleeting moment,
A flash, just outside of us.
You were holding me when it happened,
I could feel it move from you to me.
The last connection,
We will ever have.

Right in that moment,
With precision,
And innocence,
And utter carelessness,

You lost me.

You don’t know it yet,
And you will never know
Quite how you let me down.
But soon you will see,
That I’m slipping away,
I’m falling,
The cliff is crumbling.
And even though I know,
You will try to save me,
One day you’ll see,

It was you that pushed me.

I was broken,
When we met,
And you never tried
To fix me.

You just blamed me
For my brokenness,
Then fell apart
Yourself.

And now I have lived
For so long
With wind whistling
Through my heart.

I wonder, sometimes,
If I will ever
Be whole
Again.

The moon in the sky
Hangs on a silver thread.
She watches us,
And longs to feast on our love.
To savour our greedy kisses.
And she pales with jealous hunger
As I eat the sighs from your lips.

For she is thin,
Her edges so sharp that she
might rip the velvet sky,
Spilling out the shining stars
Whose light, even now,
(Though we think we know)
We see through holes in the fabric.

Forgive me now,
for I, being a shadow-child,
must feed the hungry moon.
But watch me set out a banquet for Her.
With crumpled sheets
as the table cloth.
And our naked flesh, as the delicate feast.

From crystal goblets
she will drink your gasps
and from china plates she will sample
all the flavours of passion.
She will dispense with silver forks
And choose instead
The childish mess of hands.
And after she has drunk her last
and pushed away her plate
we’ll lie entwined,
on rumpled bed.
And let the soft breeze cool our skin.
We’ll look up to the skies and see
the full moon’s bashful smile.

Please, take my hand,
give me reason.
Let me leave my prison.
But leave me here,
and see me suffer;
Crawling amongst the dirt,
and the dust.

You watch me burn,
holding back the oceans.
I am a phoenix,
leaping through the flames:
My tears are steam,
My blood is fire,
and My resolve is slowly smoking.

For you became my escape from life,
and now life's escaping me.
Slipping through my fingers,
falling to the floor,
catching,
burning,
Gone.

If I was told,
Tomorrow,
I was going to die,

If I then said,
“I’d change nothing,”
I would be lying.

I am sure
There are things I would do,
Or refrain from doing.
Things I would say,
Or keep quiet.
Moments I would embrace,
Or hide in.

Though I know,
There are some acts,
Some words,
And some moments,
I would keep.

Like,
Talking to you,
Saying three words,
And hearing them back.

You are, to me, like a spider.
When I move I can feel
your web tighten around me.

I am, to you, like a puppet,
You push, pull,
and I react.

You are, to others, nothing special,
Another face in the crowd,
A print in the sand.

You are, to me, blinding,
Startling and magic.
My vision dances when I look away.

I am, to you,
Expendable.
Unfortunate.
Ignorable.

Oh little piglet,
What have I done?
You're so still,
So soft,
So dry and clean and cold.
Where's the mud, wee infant swine?
The rolling, jumping, laughing mud?
You are too clean, little piglet.
You never knew mud.

I'm sorry, little piglet,
I have undressed you.
Your little coat, so pink and sunrise flushed.
Such a pretty coat!
But not strong enough for mud, it seems,
Oh little piglet.

They said you were born still, little piglet.
That a hole in your heart
let the life run out.

But I believe you could have run,
Fill the hole with terracotta mud
and run, little piglet.
Here,
I've opened the gate,

Goodbye, little piglet.

How many petals, did fall upon
The unforgiving floor?
To lie, in waste, and watch, as from
The sky came many more.
They represent, in springtime hues,
The Love that's never said.
Their patrons only see the blooms
As futures to be read.
They slowly rip from Nature's bones
Her brightly coloured clothes,
And pull apart her spreading buds,
For what they might propose.
The question, "does he love me now,
Or does he love me not?"
Is asked as petals slowly fall,
and in the darkness, rot.

I am
Reserved,
As though
Between the world
And me
There exists a void,
A canyon,
Miles of empty space to fall through.

But you
Are a thread
As strong as hope,
If only I could hold on
I know
You would join the gap,
Fill the space,
Build the bridge,
Reawaken me.