A moth, quivering

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Desperately 
He distorted his vision
And read between edges
His eyes began to bleed
A moth was pulsating
In his periphery 

Defiantly 
He dismantled himself 
With crafted crimson characters
But he could not see them
The moth was flickering
Within his fancy 

Deathly 
Silence ensued
The moth trembled
The web stuck
As it strangled
Him in words
And the venom
Of his verse
Seeped as smoke
Into its nerves
He quivered
It stopped

More poems by Chris Taljaard

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