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I'm cooped up in a dark room full of
Low-level technology: quill pens and many
old books to read.
Candles provide light, grim and silent.
A miniature drama is enacted in a spider's web,
A fly in a hurry is hindered by a wing caught.
It's harried by the spider, trying to extend
webs to wrap its food.
They interact, irresponsibly unaware of the
personal apocolypse that could be in their future,
should their struggling goad annoyance into being.
The fly gives up in grief, and the spider
enjoys a scrumptious meal with a prick of its teeth.
I turn away and glance at my messy desk,
strewn with junk; keys, written tests,
tabloids about the mutant squash of Vermont,
a scribble of Venus in space, hardly art.
I clutch a pencil to finish what I hope is
a profound proposal.
Outside of 39 Wayside Lane, a storm blocks the
violet sunset, raining fluid on the gravel driveway.
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