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Betty Feb 17
Silken spider thread

Cobweb soft

A whispered sigh

Hanging on the breeze

Silent song of hard worked creation

Strung like pearls to catch the morning

Intricate patterns

Each tiny artist works alone

Beauty on the wire

A gallery of infinite variety
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
Like an Anchors
Close to, Ocean blue
Bigger than the horizon
Strong as it’s ties

A simple threads
Full of vibes and colours
Identity explains,
An agreement
Seems freedom on fire,
A helical twist

But they say,
Twisting is mystery
Twisting is strength.
Genre: Abstract
Theme: Then, nothing matters.
Shared from my Aanthology, Canvas: Echoes and Reflections, 2018.
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
Driven energy,
Understanding silence
Familiar wavelength
With sympathetic threads
Invisible bond
A sense of prospective,
A fate of inclusion,
Synergy of trust
Moment of warmth
Bridge of communication
Law of equanimity
Seizing a moment
With a Joy without an end

Adventure of being alive
Worth of human connects
Celebrating a new time.
Shared from my Anthology, Canvas: Echoes and Reflections, 2018.
evildum Apr 2015
Sinewed by the the ancient art
of tai chi, he forged the forces of  the universe
to lure a dreamer  into his lair. He stayed
silent as a spider; and with seamless
gliding of  limbs and fingers,
he entrapped  his prey like a moth
entangled in a cobweb. The sky
was bleeding then when she asked:  “How
can I walk  through the dusk?” “Just
follow me, I’m a pathfinder,” said
he. He whispered to her ear:  “Close
your eyes my child and trust your heart.”  
And to the tremor of  his voice he danced
her, deeper and deeper  into the night. Soon  
his lips dripped with her muffled sobs, the stench
of  his slobber drifted  into her pristine dream;
and he confessed:  “She came to me;
I’m innocent.”
Tiffany Norman Oct 2014
Moths float out from behind
an opened, warped door.
I push my face into your clothes,
hung heavy like pearls
in an antique shop.
Stale and familiar,
the scent follows me
like a lost little bee.
It buzzes even after I leave.

Hopscotch down the hallway
to find dead crickets
in the bathtub.
Scuffed wallpaper camouflages
a cobweb. Metallic vines
curve around bursts of petals.
I’m certain you chose this pattern,
but I don't know.

Memories are few.
I fill in the holes with honey
and arrowheads.
Indian feathers and
an old brooch.
Piles of pie.
Did you love to bake pie?

Games of bridge
on that old, scratched table top
with a musty deck of Bicycle cards.
Each deck a photo album
of your face.

Your raisined face.
I remember holding it in my hands.
“This aint a walk for old womans.”
And out the door I go.
Empty handed and independent.

— The End —