A spider spins its web around its victim. Pity oozes out, seeping through silk threads.
I watch it subconsciously. My mother always told me “don’t look for an escape, build a home.”
The spider isn’t a victim. Neither is the fly. The bird eats the spider, the spider eats the fly.
The bird is the victim. because the man hunts it down. How do I build a home out of land owned by a shooting ground?
A canary screeches across the distant waters. Something, somewhere hears it drowning. and ignores it.
A month passes. The mocking birds echo the canary’s strangled cry. The same water slips it’s way past the threshold, between two countries.
Boundaries are just lines drawn in the sand. water heals all and consumes all. The someone somewhere starts to release a silent tear.
There’s fresh thoughts running through dry blood. The famine is long gone. Now corpses line the battlefield, with venomous appetites.
-@unsaidwriting
Unsaid Writing 