Widow Webs

I waited so long for this path to prolong,

That all that has been now has gone,

To an unfortunate end bleak life failed to portend,

That there were such true things as “on and on”.

But it’s a sad happy thing dripping heavy from a tree,

Like the tears in summer rain or black tar sap,

That pretends like it is going somewhere better, somewhere knowing,

Someplace more than to an organic last gasp collapse.

And yet for every fragile hope trailing off to where, who knows,

There are seven spiral staircases winding down,

With the promise of belonging in the clocks that spin foreboding,

Down as widow’s webs that catch ashen human snow.

To be kept in iron vase, above false woods and a fireplace,

So far beyond these empty fires burning low,

With the promise to the finite that their house lit now by nightlights will forever infinitely stay,

Lording over failing matter that like thin glass will shatter as every flame becomes a lifeless ember’s glow.