Cobwebs, on red curtains drawn
on a canvas left alone
in a field of weeds and grass
at the end of winding paths
through a dark place in mind space
where the restless shadows pace,
they were sticky comfort zones,
sundew seats, not velvet thrones.

It dripped tears and summer’s sweat,
salty on the tongue; tired, wet
silhouettes in muddy towns
sighed as rain came pouring down,
washing away caked brown dirt
painting the sky blue with mirth.
It helps, in a game of dice,
to start over once or twice.