Spiders and Snipers

Poetry sketch

I do not know which way to go,

the signs all look the same;

There is no predefined – start or finish line,

no daybreak to the night.


I cannot figure my own grip on the trigger,

wrapped tightly into a metallic weave.

It’s hard to define which pieces are mine,

and when I can, I choose not to perceive.


Sniper’s spiders scatter like exploding dark matter,

upon the highest points, looking down at me;

My heart beats like a drum into dead woman’s hum,

and then darkness falls all around me.



The End

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