“I’m caught in a spider’s trap.” he said through plummet to the sea.
Caught he declares, caught and servant to his plight.
What can be alone without ravings can never be.
How is this scourge a penalty for greatness,
if it does not end in weeping, in bursting brains.
He’s stranded, you see, for there is no connection for what desires
Disconnect. Disconnect. Disconnect. Discontent in slashing reality.

“I’m caught in a woodsman’s axe.”
He does not know what of the sling that binds him. Does he blink
when in blindness because of blankness? Is he but illusion
incarnate, out to achieve no mortal bearings, out to sink all sailing
ships taking off across crossroads of blooden skies—or catch adrift,
stealing quickly in scrying pieces.

Axe or trap. Woodsman or spider. Call or calling or rantings bludgeoned.
I watch him blaze, blaze to cinders and slag,
and fall as a heart falls when taken.
He has no hand to hold, he has no deity to reach
as he stupors to the drop point. “I have no soul.” he says like a tide,
and he has none that would consider this plea unwarranted.
He takes a turn, a look, a glance, his eyes meet.
“I’m just caught.” he says, then impacts to the sea.