Legs

I am not a poet. I think it fair to say that. But, I saw something today that I thought had poetic value in it, and so I’ve given it a go. I figure, hell, at the very least it’s writing practice, right?

Legs

The legs twirl in suspension,
deadly with precision,
and underneath them a body writhes in silver bonds;
the shimmering strings weave a pair of wings
in the space under arched and breaking limbs,
and they flap in desperation,
trapped in a loom of hair and exoskeleton.

Transformed and caged,
a grotesque and hollow bird,
its fangs are tiny and useless fingers;
the legs drag it quietly away,
and let it dangle in the darkness,
unseen and unheard,
forever the undone predator.

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