Breaking Webs Poem by Mark Heathcote

What locksmiths do we need to break webs?
Prismatic chains, deathly spun to incarcerate
with all the snares beauty of our ultimate demise.
Fate, death will one day gaze into our eyes
when we are suckled nearly dry, emancipate
we'll dangle—ascend like angels without regrets.

Blinkered and blind, half-mad like a moth.
Leaving its lair, a spider engages in a dance
that shall cocoon our brittle skeletal selves
till a fragrance, an essence delicious overwhelms;
quite overpowers, and these webs lose their fangs,
their spiralling bars, just becoming an entourage.