On Spiders
Whenever I stay still,
I feel the spiders weave their webs around me.
Their tiny legs entangle me in silk,
traverse my body as they seem to proudly
inspect their work and into darkness sink.
There're times I see the spiders' threads on others,
They shimmer gently in the purple dusk,
Or sway with zephyrs in the hair of lovers,
stuck.
To listen to the webs is to hear echoes
of social butterflies ensnared within
arachnid galleries of human ethos,
whose pieces come and go upon a whim.
Their curators are blind and want for stories,
delivered as vibrations through the links,
for righteous anger, anguish, joy and worries,
superimposing frequencies that mix,
reveberating through the sprawling complex
of radial lines and newly captured prey,
resisting first but ultimately hopeless,
these signals grow in urgency and they
form standing waves that make the victims sing
and even from myself bring out a resonant ring.