Orb Weaver

I miss the balcony weaver.
She provided alternating waves,
Of adrenalin and wonder,
Her delicate work,
Collecting tiny beads,
Of diffracting dew.

The winter descended during that summer,
Scraping off your skin,
And every thought was sticky and wide-eyed.

Let us be quite clear;
No-one can survive themselves.
You will need to numb this pain.
Arm yourself or oblivion will find you,
One way or another.

I thought it was a mistake.
To begin with I didn’t know,
That the gaping hole,
The missing sector,
Was a design feature.
An artist’s mark,
That said she was no widow.

You think it’s more noble, to let life blunt its own nature?
They say you’re better now, you’re more like yourself,
But you’re just weaving another distraction

A jolting asymmetry,
imperfect from the start,
And if she was satisfied with her craft,
we all should be too.

© Accidental Tentacles 2021

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