Irish Webs

Cocooned carcasses murmur

with the silent pulse of all that’s lain dead,

entwined in shadows, bound by memory’s thread

a feast bound tight in sorrow’s thread.

Where the wild and wounded threads of what was

are woven into something that trembles in silk

between memory and fang.

This is my loom, my confessional, my untangling place—

where blog posts hang like dew-caught wings,

poetry bleeds raw,

and reflections glint in the gossamer light of what was.

Each entry is a filament pulled from the heart of it all

the golden mornings and midnight reckonings,

the tender knots and the unraveled skeins,

the frayed edges and the shadowed voids between the threads.

This isn’t chronology—

it’s the quiet spinning of the soul’s silk.

It’s the liquefaction of love’s remains,

the unspooling of devotion’s delicate web and desecration,

the silver threads that hold it all together—

fragile as dew, taut with venom’s promise.

From rapture to ruin,

from sacred to profane—

this is the web, spun and respun amongst the clovers.

Woven in silence, strand by trembling strand,

from the marrow of memory

and the hunger to make meaning of the snare’s design.

Crawl in for the weaving. Linger for the unraveling.

- IrishWebb