not to blame

A tangled mass of hair down life's drain,

The fly imprisoned in the hectagon cell of a spider's secretion,

The hands of death move swiftly to pull out the remains,

Life flashes before six eyes upon their own annihilation

Bereft of it, he asked me at the edge

if there was a chance I would get better some day

Eyes wild with fear, I asked him the same -

The sound of tumbling rocks from the ledge

His grabbing hands couldn't hide his answer as he sighed

- "who's to say?"

His hand missed mine as the last words spoken from the fly

- "you're not to blame"

I knew the moon was still there,

that the light would eventually show itself to me once more,

but during the eclipse I couldn't bring myself to care,

which is consequently how one finds oneself on the ocean floor