Memoirs of a Spider
glass webs
hang low
in the sky
my compass
breath weapon
fits snugly between
silently
avoiding
among the white
blankets
a thorn fire
heavy
disappearing
when we begin
empiricism
the day-to-day subjective
lingers
tramping
torn
foreign
page remnants
beneath my feet
still
layered
edited
stories
copied
a forced reflective
upon the still
hanging glass
erases thick
that
which I try so desperately
to remain true
Poem of the Month 
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