my voiceover:
tended webs
spindly legs prick taut membranes,
—pop—
what lies beneath? conspiracy’s a void,
(maybe true, or not), when curtains fall,
who pulled their cords? whether human, beast, or devil,
or god, or
saintly priest and king
i’ve been the unwitting stagehand, set designer,
Prima Donna, groundling drooling rivulets
as porcine hearts beneath unspotted tunics
beat their last—
do we stop the show or break a leg?
daddy long-legs and black widows tend the webs
that span between
throbbing eggs, unseen.
dramas hiding the anguish,
the torture
that tore her,
and her, and him
to serve a shadow’s whim.
If you want, have a listen to this AI-generated song of my poem:
Ah, yes the modern world of conspiracies that are maybe true or not, hidden behind whatever they please. Liked the piece.
What a haunting way to leave it!
the torture
that tore her,
and her, and him
to serve a shadow’s whim.