If I were to imagine it
it’d be the helpless struggle of predestined fate
caught, dead centre
in the sticky threads of my cobweb
suspended, but not flying nor free
see, the silk-thread neurons weave the prey
like the next step in the sewing process-
the continuous
push and pull strung in the bed frame of memory,
ringing through and through,
a never ending symphony
calling, and testing
the humble plea, remember me?
clockwork
Published
endreeyah 