Family Web

The wedding bells are ringing but there never was a groom. A meddler softly singing in the corner of the room begins to Rise on legs of eight I count, a spider some might say. Proudly as if descending on a greatly sought out prey. Halfway down the aisle, though, it torques his head improper To see a man with dampened eyes from failed attempts to stop her. A flower; no? Though spotted black, excretes aroma spiders lack. But then again, what good’s a nose? For eyes point out he’s not a rose. A swifter pace ahead provokes a glace o’er to the right, To find a man insisting for the meddler’s sudden flight. This shiny trinket sparkling draws the focus of the beast, And without a hesitation, it dismisses any feast. The man who promised not to speak begins to say a word, But saline breath grips hold of him to make sure no one heard. So there she lies caught in a net, consumed with sorrow and regret. A pride too big for former hope confirms starvation on a rope.