A spider lives on the moon.
She spins a web between the stars,
Weaving lines of silk against a dark, summer sky,
Like spirals of beautiful things cast around the world,
To catch the lost souls left wandering through the night.
A spider lives on the moon,
And I think she’s lonely;
Lonely up there between worlds,
Holding up the universe
In the absence of suns.
I wish I could be the moon,
Or even just a star,
To be encased in her soft touch,
And either of us would have to be alone.
Light filters in,
Like soft thorns on her skin.
She slips it through her fingers,
Imagining it a ribbon
Winding round her hand
So she can bring down the sky and it’s stars.
She listens to the wind
And imagines feathers on her back,
To fly up with the ravens
And greet the moon as one.
She recites all her spells,
And summons monsters she shouldn’t know-
Ones with red eyes-
From the dusk,
But the night was never hers.
My world is made of paper,
A drop of ink for a soul,
An ocean lies within my heart;
Waves of words to make me whole.
You’d be a fool to think Heaven and I are close.
I may be one Hell of an angel,
But don’t let these white wings fool you-
I am but a dove-feathered raven
Flying far from grace.
This place is full of ghosts.
They exist in the gloomy light of
In those dark cottage walls,
Lingering with a ghoulish fondness.
I find myself drawn to remain also.
Perhaps these melancholy ruins offer
More than fear;
They invite somber reflections-
Reflections of the living as well as the dead-
And I find it pleasantly haunting
To explore the shadows
That hint at the brief spans of life
That may have walked these halls.
Although I worry our friends may have haunted too long;
Now they creak and moan at the slightest breathe
Across the stairs;
Wail and whine at the smallest strain.
These quiet graves are full of noise;
Full of grave suggestion
That perhaps we cannot die.
We’re fated to pace these cold floors forever-
Bound by footprints left in dust;
Tied to ballads about lives we can no longer mind
But the world decided to remember.
Left only in the company
Of slithers of light along the wall,
Drawing harsh, poetic lines
Across my work.
What happened to the day?
At what point did the sun give in
Laying waste to all I’ve written?
What happened to my words?
When did they too, abandon me
Leaving me like a shadow in the dark
Unseen and reluctantly accepted?