Gothic Poetry: A Collection of Dark Poems

Trapped in a Web of Pseudo-ness

Born in the corner-

Is my present state,

the spider web

In which we live

The four corners into

which we are pressed-

Oppressed

by our natural dissension;

our blind carcasses are made of pseudo-ness;

the eight legged mess, a crooked sideway stress,

as we caress the fine lineaments of spider threads,

catching no prey but ourselves,

for we all pretend to be predators in contemplation

of oppression and dislike,

yet, our blind carcasses of pseudo-ness,

the eight legged mess

of our spider dress is...

trapped in a web of our discontent.