by Ben M Rymer
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
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The hypnotic, maths-precise spiral hangs
In premonition of moth, midge and dew-drop,
A death-continuum live to chance, a trap of intention.
At itsí centre the cannibal jailer,
Whose sticky scurry and devouring frenzy
Remain changeless, unchanged
by variance in necessity or want.
Creationís bored doodle lies sprung, baited,
The barb-wire in a no-mans-land
We will never enter.