Spider legs tapping away at
The weave we weave our words of,
Her nimble sonata waxes beyond the grasp
Of the insects below her
Witnessing things we cannot comprehend
Through her poetic compound lens,
And I embrace my simple cliche,
If that her versed fangs would pierce my veins,
Just to feel her touch upon me.
And let death linger as it may.
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Patrick…
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