Outstretched over tightly woven grids of
interlaced cityscapes,
storm clouds purge their bodies.
Rolling thunder claps, snapping like a rattrap
executioner.
Lightning strikes,
it
follows
along to:
Fibonacci's beat
one and one is two and one is
three and two is five
and three is
eight. Eight
legs,
like the ****** who spun
these threads of buildings with a widows
design. All the while wearing her
red sign
of
warning,
this city will ensnare you, and bleed
you dry.