Cobweb (UNFINISHED)

The afternoon sun streams through noble windows,
brought down as all that goes up must be,
rippled with the flow of time,
stained with nicotine's noxious grime,
patiently waiting resurrection, or destruction.

Depression's filth bears me down where Martha Stewart never goes
the murky depths that roil as souls settle,
dirt's morbid burden settles into my soul,
another's blues shade my day grey,
I yearn to, but cannot, run away.

Raising eyes from book to tv, I see
a single silver strand shining from ceiling to my toes.
A spider has spun a lone cobweb,
as he, too, answered the immutable law of gravity
and came down from up.

My overactive imagination spins its own dark web,
a grim vision of my prone form, shrouded in dusty filaments,
a bittersweet canopy, a live spun shroud,
speckled with the motes of lead that bend my weary head,
sticky misery chaining me in this bed.

The dogs make elderly animal noises,
the special alarming quality of the aged aging,
futile coughs and back legs thumping uselessly,
straining for itches that will never be scratched.

The nightly news sings its nightly blues,
drunken motorists dreaming through bicyclists' screams,
new fires licking hungrily at old houses
like children racing to finish ice cream before the summer heat.

The despair of dirt threatens to overwhelm me with its morbid burden,
spreads as ripples from a pebble in a pond,
another's blues shade my day grey,
I yearn to, but cannot, run away.
as in a falling nightmare.

Dog fur creates permanent shadows in the corners,
and rolls about like tumbleweeds.
Dust dances in sunbeams,
outside the window, cheery birds celebrate the sun,
while I am caged in this once pretty prison
that ensnares my heart even when I am gone.

The sunset lowers through the window,
so the sun dies in my eyes
blinding me with its pyre.

For mansions can become slums
while youth speeds to flee.
Elation succumbs to depression,
fierce hope to grim despair,
and halls bright with life and light
become the spider's lair.