The form is octal syllabic verse.
A microscopic arachnid
tinier than a poppy seed
spins diminutive filaments
barely visible to the eye;
a spiral silk lacework deathtrap
for infinitesimal prey
strung high between white cornered walls
in a microcosmical world.
Is its existence more trifling
than mine that occupies more space?
Perhaps not, in the scheme of things:
my universe among the stars
is imperceptibly smaller
than this occupants’ in my room.