Silk is a soft
deceptive place
to wait for death.
(Its bony spider legs
wrapped around me
as the fangs sank in
day after day
poisoning my spirit
with the urgency
of normalcy.)
For ten thousand years
disguised as three
it hollowed the soul
leaving a shell
masquerading
as me.
Empty me.
Waking.
Dialing.
Faking.
Dying,
dying dying
drop by drop
sucked dry
as the beast
fed on my best
and I was left
lonely,
empty and
without muse
or hope
for recovering
everything missed
or sharing
anything gained.
I’ve been to hell
and it was a sea
of cubicles.
Renee Novosel
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