Entangled
My life hung by a tendril,
a thread so fine,
spun from his spinneret,
silk that felt divine.
At first it was like floating,
a carefree drift,
gliding, gliding,
weightless as mist.
Suspended in a fairy hammock,
woven of gossamer silk,
swaying in a pendulous flow,
glowing like golden buttermilk.
But his choice of victim was no coincidence—
his traps were carefully placed.
I was part of his spidroin jouissance,
a sweetness that seemed harmless,
yet proved relentless, ruthless.
He constructs the net with precision,
by all means detached,
a vast weave of tangled lies,
where even the path
is trapped in its own wrath.
The dangling trap reverberates,
planning strategic detours.
His victims never stand a chance
in his quest for fornicatours.
Intricate webs—
orb, funnel, and sheet—
she was tangled, ensnared
by a blood-thirsty, solitary
orb-weaver,
who rushed in for the kill
as she lay still.
Careful crafting,
a ball spun of silk—
once entangled in his sticky mess,
it mimics a scent.
This trickster fools the others,
whether they crawl or fly.
His vision isn’t sharp,
but the vibrations he spins
sing through the dark.
And when you fall into the trap,
you cannot come out.
Hardly ever was his head
on his shoulders.
He thinks with his web—
unbroken lines,
a web of lies,
a constellation of separate threads.
What others find repulsive,
an innate aversion,
he weaves into frisson:
an unreasonable number of eyes on me,
on an unwary passerby.
He mummifies,
sucking out their insides,
eating his mates,
slowly letting them die.
A swarm of offsprings follows.
Unfamiliarity binds with commonness,
stoking hatred,
an ability to defy control.
Crawling out of floorboards,
he turns up unexpectedly.
Well-documented blunders,
a visage ascribed off-putting—
an empathy so deeply flawed,
decidedly unappealing.
Tagmata, pedicel, pedipalps:
from his pigment pits
to her bulbous base,
an invisible leash is borne
from the segment of his pedipalp.
Cunningly placed glue,
made to subdue,
a polymer,
milk of gossamer,
refinement of his helical matrix,
neutron scattering,
woven with intricate care.
He feasted each day
on his unsuspecting prey.
She dangled in anger
in her delicate trap,
made to entangle,
restrain what enters.
Woven by a meticulous spider,
she waits for her prey,
scuttling along the wainscoting.
Dragline, flag, or Darwin bark—
an intricate web of lies.
It mummifies,
meant to absorb the shock.
Slowly she became a part
of a convoluted mesh
that wrapped her close,
but was meant to tear me apart.
A cocoon that claimed to protect,
like courtships complicated,
built on precarious toleration.
It appears so fragile—
yet it’s stronger than steel.
What makes the saint a sinner?
The house, and not the spinner.
What makes the web complicated?
The web, or the weaver fated?
Webs of silver,
all her life has stirred—
all because of the plain brown spider.
She swings precariously,
watching the moments go by.
In the ephemera, I await.
For his hubris he was known,
scuttling across the unknown.
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