Mourning dew

The arachnid mother twirls me

in her merciful dance,

putting me out of misery,

leaving an apathetic corpse

leeched of sanguine desire.

She’s no thief, as I willingly uncork

this ripened organ of arbitrary satiety,

allow it to drain dry

and watch my essence wither away.

The last rainfall is long gone,

and this spider will climb up again,

but I’ll be long forgotten;

the mud stuck to the bottom of your shoes.

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