Of The Game

A spider spun into her drawing room
Thankful for the hospitality
Although the air was taut and terse
Checked signs of unreality
Her face read blank just like her verse
Left marks upon his soul charcoal whispers
Flowers woven with blue silk thread
He spun his web upon her tide
She moved inside somewhere ahead

Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 145 times
Written on 2022-07-08 at 17:28

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Ghosts Of Summer Trees
by Chaucer Whethers