Your Web Of Fiction

Yours is a web of fiction

Whispers of a symmetrical spider over my head

Pleading with your many eyes

You wind your weepy web

Entrails of a silver year

A silver dress, in which I may dance

No question of who, or when

Only an unfaltering moulded desire

That I bundle, like you spider eyes

Still your tongue is salty

With a storm of monsters though blind

Shame, reveals

That in each smouldering hug of cuts to the knee

Your speckled cheeks may yet be clean

Roasted overhead

Bodies of old accidents

And better yet, lips born before the dawn

So I place the red pill on my nightstand

And books half read, in my hard hand

The little squads of a life band

That some explosion may withstand

Perfectly hopeless I lie in bed

Perfectly shameless, you wind your web

By: Keelin, Age 17, Dublin