Braced
It is a slow death
the death of soul,
but assured-
too subtle to see.
List the listless
near-misses here
married to the seashore,
sisters of death;
go closer,
they bite.
If their webs carress
you are chilled.
Each strand soothes
a single cell, and
each loss in life
encompassed is
sane only when
approached in the distance.
Question, or they tell.
I am desolate
when you are passed;
crouch in the shadow
where I can see you.
by Jason Paul Fox
