Should I toy with small flowers the way I do spiders when I spend
hours pulling them from them their dreams until they kick
with their needy legs, enmeshed with petals,
and throw them into nature’s chasm?
Should I play with your daydreams
as I do and make them seem real for hours and hours,
spoiled only by reminiscent rays of cloud etched on my
brow in furrows?
Should I let you down gently
or keep you dangling forever, here on this viscose thread,
stuck in its glue and itching, like me, to be fed, before
I wind you up further into my web?
Should I love you honestly
but tread cautiously among caustic chances?
If satire has a cost per glance and blood is wit and adrenaline,
is this a toxic romance?
Should I remove you?
And extricate us from fate’s tawdry demeanours where we both ebb
free of perplexities. This hindrance and these entanglements
of a needy spider’s web are not for us.