Arachnid On An Apricot

Through the doors of a workshop large and tired 

equipped with gas lamps glowing full; 

benches mired in sawdust, replete with rot 

my muse appears, as an arachnid on an apricot. 

Peculiar in its performances, I find the greatest poetry 

in its abstract meanderings, that is its way of dancing 

no music to encourage it, but still it thrashes 'round 

spider singing sweetly,  with or without sound. 

I would inquire and question its motives, 

ask it why it moved that way, 

only to find my muse taciturn- 

from alphabet abyss I learned. 

So with alchemy and calligraphy

in a workshop evaporating ink into words, 

a linguistic gas that is smelled by the ears, 

and poetry the perfect perfume.