The I of the Spider



The little brown spider hangs high in the tree

He grins as he spins, he is spinning for me

He falls and he crawls as he carefully weaves

Each sticky grey thread from the sticks and the leaves

From morn’s dewy dawn, till the death of the day

He engineers webs to ensnare all his prey


He looks from a branch to the ground down below

He sees that I’m watching, and dying to know

He coughs somewhat wryly, and begins to speak

“You’re wondering how I can prey on the weak?

Some think me a monster for all that I do,

The truth is that I am no different than you.”


“But I do not live at another’s expense

To do so is cruel and doesn’t make sense.”

He looks at me blinking all six of his eyes.

He doesn’t believe in my petty replies.

“Oh yes, yes you do, by the words that you say.

You put people down and you push them away.

You build webs of pride with the words that you speak,

And hungrily suck all the life from the weak.


The difference between your great black web and mine

Is that you are deceived into thinking you’re fine.

So don’t you point figures at what I must do

Because in the end I’m no different than you.”









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