BEN BOSTICK

They is me

The doctor and the disease

The spider caught in what he weaves

 

If I can make

My own prison, I know

I can break it, I know

I could tear through these vines

If I wasn’t entwined so finely

If this web wasn’t so, so exquisitely designed

 

Only I

Author of these twisted lines

From ink wells I drew these vines

With this pen 

Could I write

Another verse

With this pen 

Stop the hearse

With this pen

Weave these vines into the lines of a cocoon

 

I

I have some measures left to score

Though paper skin is torn

In woven womb reborn

For new life to begin

Old one first must end