The hate. It rages;
burns my shackles to reality
until I am no longer bound.
So I whither and shrink and hide,
like an arachnid,
in fear of being crushed,
slips underneath a door frame.
In hopes of escape,
from the descending shadows my flames create,
And every line I write
is a web I shoot.
Hoping to grab, grasp and clutch reality
So as to save my soul
from the abysmal, bottomless black.
Before my eighth and final leg sprouts
And it’s too late to turn back.
Before I reside evermore in a web of façade and lies
Before I consume people
as if they were flies.
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