stories that are
     spin
        spun
like spider webs
sticking the spots
stringing to connect the dots
of straight-forward-thinking.

sacredness cries: insight may lie where our logic blinds.
insects pry
the larger picture,
so hypnotized,
all to become but the dots that have died and were left behind.

a larger mosiac of victims;
pixels stuck in sticky ichor.
an image, an illusion, all of some darker decrepit deeper demise.

bygone begone.
the predator's amuse
of a nature's refute
to abuse anymore lives;
for it cares so beautifully to be kind.

in life's hike, i use a stick to swat that structure from sticking to my eyes.