Brown Recluse Writer – The Poem

In dry rotted woodpiles behind warm sheds I hide inside disorderly threads glimmering light.
My venom’s dormant – undisturbed in isolation, unthreatened, until – you know, until I’m disturbed.
Unlike most web weavers, of which I am most, unlike –
I only leave my lair at night;
To hunt and peck,
And cast my snare,
And track and trap unknowing fare,
And make minds mine
With rhyme and lines
Rapped error tight
With crispest sight
Where fight won’t tread
And shells of dead who read – remain piled high,
Behind sheds shackled with disorderly threads,
Of where I hide.

For dverse Poet’s Pub Open Mic Night.


14 thoughts on “Brown Recluse Writer – The Poem

  1. dang man…vivid…love the quick rhyme and rhythm you pic up at going out at night….and spinning that web. the bodies piling up of those that read…very visual and effective…ha…hoping i dont end up dead from this but…i like..smiles.

    • I would be lying if I said that this is all clear to me, Henry.
      Fluctuating between a mosntrous being and your devilish powers as a writer, flitting between you and it?
      Using your words like a viper might his split tongue?
      Intrigueingly different, as usual.

  2. this takes on the structure of a snappy weave. the recluse always seems so old to me, no matter actual age. you seem to have captured the old voice in your rhyme. very nice.

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