In my poetry I aspire to make beautiful literary webs of interlocked verses that move in the
nature of silk, yet I usually only produce cobwebs in the corners of scraps of papers.
I weave my webs any where that the fancy strikes me.
Like the silk of the spider my poems come from inside me
I work my poetry out of the vast dark shadows of the human condition.
Like cob webs there isn’t a central theme that holds my poems together.
They are just made up of what ever gets caught in my web.
Like the Theridiidae I hunt at night trying to devour a poem or two each night.
Like the spider I work fast and furious to justify my existance,trying to leve my mark,before
I’m reduced to a dried up carcus stuck between the
secretary desk and the wall.
By Robb A. Kopp
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