The Spider

Waiting.

For what?

Hanging like spiders

blown by the winds,

the waves

against which we plan precarious futures,

spinning out webs in the ebbs and the flows,

spinning out webs,

spinning out.


First Wave

Second Wave

Third Wave

How many Waves?

Still hanging, the spider

blown by the Waves, the gusts,

sharper, becoming

sharper still as our loneliness echoes

louder and louder with each passing month.


How many months has it been again?

The texture of time at this point so foreign,

priorities different

from the momentum of lives we once had,

the forces disturbed, seeking new balance

negotiations at play

between what was there, now impossible

and the possible not yet there.

Not yet.

Individualists in insular cities full to the brim,

crowded, spaced out, further still

by the vastness of this solitude

grappling with our totality,

grappling with it more than before.

Is the spider still there?

Is she alive?

Is her thin string still holding her,

rocking along

with the

First Wave

Second Wave

Third Wave

How many Waves?

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