Arachne’s Lament Sarah O’Connor
The spider was weaving, as always. Tiny black body scurrying Up The rough, warted branch of a dying tree, Down The dull, jagged rocks. Thin silver silk Invisible in the darkness But always there, following the spider, One with the spider. She was molding, She was designing, She was creating Her web, her home. Upside down, Crisscrossed Until it was perfect. Her webs were always perfect. Satisfied the spider sat in her web Waiting, Waiting, Waiting,
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