ThursdaySpamPoem: The words are theirs, the spacing is mine.

web. I shut my eyes. I went numb and
the only thing I heard was the web
affords a new perspective on the nature
of ours and ourselves;
it even has
hasn’t been overgrown with bramble yet.
Forty yards. Where was he counting
meaning of flight beyond a way of travel
to get a breadcrumb from a table.
And they have returned!
And that… that can’t happen!
Fletcher’s was in a hiding place,
and the hiding place was guarded
by mean men. . . .

It’s been a while since the since spammers (an oxymoron, I know) have sent me poetry. I had begun to think they didn’t love me any more. Then this little gem appeared embedded in an offer for a R*lex watch. :)

The words are theirs, the spacing is mine.

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