There’s a net which supports
both my asymmetric sides
of mountain-shaped thoughts,
with a tendency to collide.

Then along comes a spider,
tracing webs made of iron -
a security provider
while nothingness environs.

But when days and nights appear
as sharpened scissors in acid tears,
who’ll stop the rust in wires,
when the spider runs for safety?

While the web, with its straight lines
of fragmented hexagons,
falls into a ground which shines
the basis of this paragon.

But its panoramic pomp
putrefies with each approach,
and paradise becomes a swamp
in which the spiders are poached.

And when the nails that tie the net
unpin from a once solid fret,
no one can stop this avalanche
inside my tottering head.

you come with all your artifacts
to build a new necropolis
by disintegrating this net.
I’m another Persepolis;

just one more belvedere;
a photograph on a postcard.
You know you’re my strengthening
who left me in ruins and scarred.
Last edited by seventh_angel at Dec 15, 2009,