The spider
that weaves and weaves,
had become
a moth.
Its wings
are now sliver spider webs,
decorated
with its ex preys
The red
crimson had evolved too.
Now is
black, the color of the death.
The woman
coated with dirty diamonds laughs ecstatic,
while
those men enjoyed her being.
Scarlet
moon, endless night.
The lights
of colors that illuminated the scene,
changed,
rejoicing
in time of the pleasure of that cheap woman.
The snake
appeared,
eating
that rotten but at the same time delicious dish already eaten before.
An open
window,
An
uncomfortable breeze.
The spider
now being a moth entered,
seeing
that incomprehensible scene filled with sweat.
A macabre
idea.
The night
turn off, letting only the smell of incense.
The woman
wakes up.
Her body
was filled with saliva of those men.
One
minute.
A new
pain.
A bulging
belly.
Another
minute.
The incarnated
shell moves,
like a
tsunami creating an end.
The blood
sprang, staining the perverse smile
of that
cheap and vulgar woman.
The smile
of the worm-eaten baby.
A heart
that lived, a soul that existed.
Black
blood, red death.
The spider
with prey wings incarnated,
wishing to
born again.
She was
perfect, she was obscene.
A month,
he said.
Hate,
hate, hate.
Rancor…more
hate.
The woman
now fill with oil laughed,
losing the
sense of the world.
The
incense scattered by the atmosphere,
a macabre
laugh killed it.
The shell
broken before the time,
the white
oil was ejected,
the sac
cracked.
The woman
destroyed the shell without time,
cutting
the air, extinguishing
the spirit.
The spider
bawled, while watching it wigs falling,
while watching
its severed body in parts.
while observing
its dismembered being.
One eye
here,
one leg
there.
What did
it matter where it fall?
The preys
left furious, filled with anger and frenzy.
What have
she done?
A weeping,
a crimson drop.
The flower
that hung of the window fell,
while that
obscene woman convulsed in her wickedness.
Why?
An
agonized grimace,
a without
beating heart.
The spider
that wished reborn, had become unreachable ashes.
There was
just blood, there was just evilness.
Little by
little,
slowly,
that light
disappeared forever without crying more.
Inexistent,
unreal.
That was
it, that was her.
The rosebush
that will never bloom again.
The darkness
that will never happened again.
