The patience of stone, whose surface belies calm.
Neither warm nor cold, but unfeeling.

It digresses and turns inward, a vessel reversed
in course, in body, in function, the

outward notion separate but inclusive,
darkness expanding, the moist

earth crumbling yet holding its form:
acceptance of fate become

another’s mouth,
the means to closure and affirmation

driven not by lust nor fear
but through involuntary will.

Neither warm nor cold, but unfeeling.
The patience of stone.


36 thoughts on “Tarantula

    • Hmm. I don’t write with a particular objective in mind, but you might consider the word “tarantula.” What does it evoke? In part, the poem might touch on a view of tarantula as vessel, as body, as both taker and giver of life. Or not. 🙂


  1. Yep, stones will still be patient when we’ll all be gone. Now, are they unfeeling? There was a time when men thought animals were unfeeling. And, later, men thought plants and trees were unfeeling. Today, we know better. Who knows if we don’t find tomorrow that stones have feeling. Maybe there’s will, we just don’t know it. Great work though.

    Liked by 1 person

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