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.