Sting

Cackling taps the shoes

of passersby. Heading forward the

laughs unheard spread open a shell.

Remnants of brown shards perpetuating

gluttony. If only a glass still half full–

better to be in-joy later. Ravished and

nothing remains. A small cup of wine lapped

out of like a trough. A-mazed through

continuity. Spun–trapped– wishing

to be devoured. Shelob never comes.

Sauron long gone. The boy’s pincer

takes arms. His sword eternally

radiating blue. Hoping

never to use and for

it to rust with dew.

 

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