For Taylor

Night-shaded worms
In a crippled, rotting room;
Just a children's fable
Through the over-working looms.

They spawn the epic tapestries,
Spun of bone and demon's boon,
Just another lackluster disaster,
In a tiny, swelling, decaying spoon.

Sprouting high:
Our black bean-stalks.
Bouncing around is
The dark-gutted talk.

Ebony blind-folded,
They stumble their club-footed walk.
Stacking together while apathetic,
Their s**t-smeared, papery faults.