Soothing shade in which, all dreams are made
of – In the
web of
that which
Lies.
The Spider Spins Circumference.
In the Grand
Web
Of
Internal Hierarchy.
Ordained by nature.
Layered by layer;
every pitch dignified,
and every pinch,
a long-tuned convention.
Weaved,
with narrow room
and unpleasant
Foundation.
Shaking.
to a drop
as the positioned
downdraft, hurls
You.
The perception of waiting,
seems so bland,
Tyrannical;
When one hangs from the branch of the web
doomed
towards an Exit.
The Mother Spider, observes from her perch.
As subliminal as,
Retreat is…
seems unfair.
When one lives in the High-Ground,
A role bestowed upon ritual awakening;
born bless-ed, for purpose.
What is it to douse one’s self in the skin, of the holy astral zero,
they once shed?
A teetering promise
Made certain,
by the scales,
and
by the breath
fueled in cold,
of a frozen heart, still-beating.
The breath propels Warmth,
when it
snickers past the Teeth of the Serpent.
As She the Serpent coils,
A glistening recall is made,
by Mother Spider.
That such events
simply, did not occur;
to cause this war.
Brought to attention,
by the one that wears the robes.
A smirk, crinkles.
Bow down or afflict narrowly.
Contemplates the Mother Spider.
One by One.
Side-stepping.
Crawling.
Diverting.
Until the tide turns
and green is ever-lasting.
Even the Serpent knows she can reach,
The High-Ground,
Masking.
Maintaining.
As she lives,
Coiled sitting on rock
bottom.
Waiting,
Patiently.
Intuition divides time, anticipated.
Amongst opportunists Seeking Glee,
And those who aim to Secede
from the Survival
of Struggle.
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