Feeling Grumpy

Anger spun
in spokes so thin,
warning dewdrops
did not glisten.

I’m captured prey,
muted heartbeat.
The gasp of delight,
I might have felt
at colour or birds or day,
is choked in rip-proof silk.

Held as a hunter’s prize
but poisoned,
emptied,
already dried,
I wait for the spider’s surprise
and pity
an eight-legged, rumbling beast
who finds
such a miserable feast.

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