Strange the writer terrified of spiders
whose string game sorcery dazzles all prey.
Hidden, shadowed, forever outsiders.
Dear fellow scribblers, isn’t this our way?
Spiders sip crimson blood. We drink black ink
spinning songs of joy and devastation.
Mysteries of existence on Earth’s brink,
each fiction takes careful calculation.
Destiny’s threads reveal characters’ fates,
story grows, moves, mirrors Arachne’s loom.
Web shimmers. Immortality’s her bait.
Orb attracts feasts, whole novels to consume.
Silken words stream from our own spinnerets.
Fearless writers, welcome your intimates.
Photo by Nicolas Picard on Unsplash
