Prophetic
unraveling, ink waltzes across
a page: the blind contour
of fate. overripe lips peel
back. rank breath rolls behind
a gate of bloodstained teeth—
gnashing in anticipation of
more succulent triumph, sweet
in her throat. prowling, her dark
hide hangs from gaunt
haunches starved of spun webs
and those who fall in. she longs
for the day her claws
fill his empty sockets and she feasts
on the darkness he has left her.
she always catches her quarry.