Challenge
Challenge of the Month XXXIX
Write a short poem about your own private Hell. The tortured who reigns gets 100 big ones. Winner will be picked by Prose. Go.
Chelicerata
Mother spider,
she wanes to wrap her children -
it's a sordid affair,
and eight faucets fault at once,
and it must be done.
No burial is more loving
than one tucked away
into dustbins of discards.
No grave is lonelier
than one left unmade:
a lazy morning's heartbreak
that won't roll out of bed.
She sows pristine dresses
for her paper-doll children.
Tomorrow they will finally
fray, and she'll be left with
split milk's acrid taste.
Outside it's February, and
the closet's own brittle bones
have weathered.
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