A sparkling, silver twine,
Like the tender hair of some long forgotten saint,
Trailing weightlessly from a crumbling, tapered sill
Dripping with the neglected upkeep of crusted paint
And the remains of nature's yielding twill.
At its end, she dangles:
A thousand greedy eyes roll in an awry head.
Pincers contract. Her delicate fibres of strength
Stretch comfortably, pulling as tight as her silken thread
Against a chilling and unsturdy length.
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