Menstruation At Forty (Spider's Curse)

Stung to death,
an ill begotten fate,
sisters in tangled limb,
sisters in wombs' blood
rendered of yesterdays
remains still hunted.
Weaving angels
hover over the early death
trapped, entangled,
consumed in poison,
wrists bound together
praying for new life.
Son, beseeching
all I have acquired of you,
You, whom the dusky late hours have made,
You, whom I lusted for and listened for
rattling as bells toll,
clocks revealing our closeness in hour,
our embrace before  
the splitting apart of our loves' codependency.
I rock you inside the empty lull,
my quiet one,
unrecieved of longing,
bare of hearts' tethering,
a last siphoning from which
sisters in kind fall away.
weaving a web over your own,
a thin and tangled poison.
bad spideró

  † †.....
Author's Note
Written for the 'More Than Myself' Comp
Quote in italics is from the original poem:
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 11 reading list entries 3
comments 6 reads 164
crimsin Ahavati QuietusQuill
Commenting Preference: 
The author is looking for friendly feedback.

Latest Forum Discussions
Today 1:24am by Poetrybydhyana
Today 00:31am by butters
Today 00:13am by admin
Today 00:04am by admin
7th December 2019 11:16pm by Miss_Sub
7th December 2019 11:15pm by David_Macleod