What Blocks the Reflection

Four days and I haven't cleared the web,

strung across the mirror's corner edge.

Sticky filaments catch the light, ebb

and flow like something at the ledge.

My face is fractured through the threads,

scattered like I've been caught too,

stuck to something. The web spreads

where nothing was meant to stick to.

The spider's gone. Just threads remain,

a map of something's ancient hunger,

a trap for what flies near in vain.

I should clean it. But I wonder.

I should reach for the broom and go,

pretend I live where webs don't cling.

But this morning I just let it show—

my reflection breaking into everything.

The web is dust now, mostly gone,

whatever was meant to catch is dead.

But the threads stay on and on,

holding nothing but my fragmented head.