The inner-walls of my brain draped dramatically in valour, red-velvet rags,

the wee spider tailored them in my throat.

Meters of fabric meant feet of flocking-fibre-debris clogging my chimney,

she still stabs me when I cough and gag.

Alors, the machine mustn't halt - enclosed in my vessle-valt alone,

we are all clogs en rote.

Turning and working, fecklessly binding the thimble-lead thread,

as if we're more than scant rings on a loose slinky.

In orbits of time, the birthing rabbit and porcupine allur larvae to their laid-lifeless-litter at dawn,

the horizon doesn't sing.

Damp velvet veils remain curtaining our view from soft, sabbath sunlight; That song sung so loud and often, but never seen.

To reveal the exit-door - is to cut the key.