06-27-2015, 03:07 PM
Late night poetry practice 
Sticky, corrosive.
a web of what could have been,
the spider stalls death
giving illusion of life
only to pierce,
with carefully concealed fangs.
Even in death, his poison flows
affecting a multitude
of moths. Drawn to light,
they flutter away but
I am the princess
And he; a king in a court of snakes,
Who would just as soon devour their own.
I am his legacy, and this
is my slow death.
Sticky, corrosive.
a web of what could have been,
the spider stalls death
giving illusion of life
only to pierce,
with carefully concealed fangs.
Even in death, his poison flows
affecting a multitude
of moths. Drawn to light,
they flutter away but
I am the princess
And he; a king in a court of snakes,
Who would just as soon devour their own.
I am his legacy, and this
is my slow death.
I relish writing bad poems, if it means someday I'll write a good one.