Oh lovely! She has grown grey and cold, sprawling in the corner
Her roots have pulled up the planks, the desperate fingers on a coffin of a disgruntled mourner
Wait, wait for the wind to stop blowing
Hesitation marks, fresh on her arms. Oh if only he had warned her
Piecing her flesh together, it is late, too late. The disease comes, the visiting foreigner
Wait, wait for the blood to stop flowing

Oh lovely! Her skin crawls like homesick spiders, listless, lost
The pattern, like those marks, the threads so intricately crossed
Lonely. The heart beats slowly, discontent and rusty
Webs, they were not built for the weight of opportunity’s cost
Webs, look, look at her skin, the patterns embossed
Hesitation, hesitant, the violence is gusty

Grey, they are icy pupils
Blessed, eight legged
Brief, arachnid relief
Grey, are their scruples

Dead, they are little pictures
Daunting, cobwebs so haunting
Restless, lungs so breathless
Dead, quoth the scripture

By Tristan Standridge