huddled in closets,
thousands of eyes—
rivers of spiders
skittering,
nothing left to spin.
weave, mothers,
weary of broken things.
gather, climbing,
whispering legs,
poised to bite
back.
*66/100: For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. All photos are mine.
2/3 through! Killing it.
That is some palpable arachnid imagery. Meanwhile, your river of poetry flows on.
Scary! Spiders creep me out so bad… 💀