barbs in twine about my neck,
blithe and pitiless,
Each metal cuff,
sucked deep from the recess of fertile breath
waking sacred days of pretend -
too squeezed from morbid juices
‘cross thick calloused treads.
Alas, even sacrifice seems
like the spinning wheel threads
of veiled spider’s web
nimbly draped upon
the chain of my bond -
thrust from this gaping world fever
into the next -
to bleed no more.
@Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).