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Grotesque

The click, clack of my many legs on the wooden floor.
The miniscule slide just before the clack
Is probably the worst part.
It would offend my human ears!
Oh, the irony! My human ears?
They would not even hear!

But me in my current insignificant form,
I am painfully aware of the
Click, slide, clack, slide, click;
Nails down a blackboard.

The eight spindly, hairy protrusions
From my bulbous arachnoid torso,
A non-descript back-brown mass
Bulging with – I do not know what.
I slide, click, slide, clack, slide, stop.

“How did this happen,” you ask me?
“I don’t know,” I shrug with eight shoulders.
I woke up this way and now,
My eyes see in all directions.

I slide click, slide, clack, slide, glide –
Through space on a rope of silk
Which I trail behind me.
I catch the light in the thread as it
Unspools.
And it catches.

Me.
And I catch my breath
And for one dangling moment,
I am not grotesque.