James Reid

Art Master






Torn, the tiresome traveller
rest awhile, pause in breath
tap, tap, tap
the trap has sprung
wrung the bell to Hell
goodbye, farewell
snared by a spider's web
parcelled, mummified
innards in a gel
hung by a thread, dead
sing, spider, sing
drink, gorge at will
fill that gnawing void
relish this small repast
time has borne at last
awaited in the wind
bringing satisfaction
silently to the table
disfiguring an otherwise
perfect creation.

© Poetry.com