Spider Web


Meet you at the bottom of the aphotic dingely dell,

Where moss grows thick amongst the hanging blues of bell,

Coiled ivy creeps around; so dense you cannot quell,

The misty air on your skin with a green irriguous smell,


Nothing here moves except the crawls beneath your skin,

The knotted roots and potholed bark menacingly cling

To the paroxysmal branches reticulating you within,

Nearer and deeper you sink, infected every limb.  




By Molly Sellers