The spiders of sleep
are weaving words
in the back of her throat.
I listen to the sibilant
murmur of her dreams
unfurling.
She recites non sequiturs
to darkened walls, her bed
a stage draped in velvet
curtains of disassociation.
Incessant spinners,
spiders embroider
forsaken moonlight
into feathery pillow talk.
I am an audience of one.
When her monologue
is done, I blanket the bed sheets
with bouquets of bloodless roses.
Ashamed, I wait for more.
Her dreams scratch
at the face of the moon,
inscribing an encore.
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
The spiders of sleep
are weaving words
in the back of her throat.
I listen to the sibilant
murmur of her dreams
unfurling.
She recites non sequiturs
to darkened walls, her bed
a stage draped in velvet
curtains of disassociation.
Incessant spinners,
spiders embroider
forsaken moonlight
into feathery pillow talk.
I am an audience of one.
When her monologue
is done, I blanket the bed sheets
with bouquets of bloodless roses.
Ashamed, I wait for more.
Her dreams scratch
at the face of the moon,
inscribing an encore.
