The skylight tints the afternoon grey
And some dull, dusty oranges
Perhaps there's fire, somewhere far away
Somewhere far beyond the creaking shelves
The time-varnished brown, rusty door hinges

The air is thicker than the oldest tomes
Sticky as the darkest aisle
Where long-dead spiders once made their homes
Minds caught in paper, minds caught in webs
I think, if I think, I'll sleep for awhile

I have watched grief hollow you out.
Your body is no longer illuminated by an open heart.
Since the spiders crept in
the warm, gentle glow has been
smothered
by cobwebs.

there are spiders in my hair
building nests and killing flies
there are spiders in my hair
cobwebs in my heart, and fangs in my eyes
you don't have to do this, she said
as the lights flickered dim
and the rain started to fall
you don't have to do this, she said
i know, i said -
i know.

my veins are the cobwebs of my soul,
intertwining and winding around my thick bones;
i'm like scaffolding, tall, and rigid, and ready to come down.
thick ducktape binds my seams together.
my eyes are the keyholes to my soul, they stare out and wonder:
what happened to the bright blue skies and thick, green trees?

my fingernails have rusted, cracked and sharpened at the pain.
long years of clawing my way down a winding road have led
me here, sewn together by dreams once wished upon a star.
my ribs have caged my hope for so long, bared iron,
protecting my heart and all that's left of what once was.
i hold my breath, and i'm ready to come down.

sunken eyes like the grave of my mother,
dark, rough and duller than cake at a funeral. i hold my breath.
living is like drowning, the anchors of my dreams anchoring
me down into the void. i scream out. i kick out. i claw out.
i come down, shaking and aching and ready to break.
cobwebs cover me, dust coats my lungs in pain.

i'm ready to come down.

i feel like my eyes are puncturing through the tombstones of a life not lived to its fullest. something of the sum of my worth, two holes in my skull that are chock full of air seeping to the brim with thickness and agony, weighs me down in shackles. i am not alone in this place, no, but i am empty, cold and vulnerable and weak, thin and haggard, scraping the surface of living. this—no. this is not living. this is surviving—this is the tightrope wire between surviving and dying—this is, essentially, dying. my mouth is filled with spiderwebs—i speak to no one but myself, hands dry and lips drier, throat raw with a voice i’ve only used to scream.
i cannot scream any more.

I've fallen to mapping
the deepest parts of my forehead
again. these days it feels like
I'm climbing the jungle gym of my mind,
clearing away cobwebs and
emptying
dust-covered boxes into my lap,
searching yellowed scrolls and broken crates
for diamonds.
it's not that I feel far from
the present, just as if
I'm swimming through it,
my head the only part of me
above the water.

it's been a little while but
I am still only climbing,
praying, and
scribbling words
on a familiar page.

I'm just a lamp.
You're just a bulb.
I give you power.
You give me light.
I stand tall and strong, waiting to be used.
You roll around, fragile, easily breakable.
Together we ignite something beautiful, that makes the world a little brighter.
It's nothing magic, just how we were wired.
One day I will fall, my intricate shade will crack.
My solid base absorbs the shock, so you remain intact.
Turned loose from me, you're ******* back into the old lamp from the closet.
Amazing, it still lights up, covered in dust and cobwebs.
A little warmer, yet a little more dim.
The only problem now, is that lingering scent, of burning dust and cobwebs.