black widow

sitting at the right hand in her
flickering wicker chair,
rocking...rocking...ashes in her hair.
wisps like fog curling out from under
the hood that plunders the good from getting there.
eyes like flies glowing in the pitch
with every stitch they twitch,
steel blue true to the icicles left by the storm
in the dead of winter.
left by the dead.
they splinter and wretch as the fetching dog barks
and her needles spark as they
click...click...endless black yarn
splitting, knitting, another nightmare
another nightmare
beneath the wicker chair that never stops.
woven webs securing the ebb of rest,
a trove of nests for heavy laden eyes
that harbor cries lost to the fell.
a silent hell.
the silent bells rung by the lost soul,
dragging his chains in search for his whole,
hollow eyes like hollow skies
dripping upwards with hollow sighs
vacant he stares with his lips that were kissed
by the icicles left where the oxygen's missed.
no resistance.
for the mind is her playground, and you were lost there.
it's too bad she found you beneath her wicker chair.
shivering, quivering, under her stair.
she has knit you a blanket which you now must wear.