She sweeps away the cobwebs with her fingertips
The silken web of a spiders thread
Do Spiders ever wonder I wonder
About using somethng more lasting
Does it depend apon the feast they have consumed
As to the quality of the thread they weave
After all to you and I
A cobweb is merely that
A nuisance
A sign of dirt
Unkept ceilings hanging with the tombs of yesterday's memories
When the sun shines through the web
It becomes a piece of art
A piece to be fashioned in silver or gold
And laid to rest upon the rich girls breast
She sweeps the cobwebs from her fingers
The silken web of a spiders thread
Then pins to her breast
A piece of art
A reminder that beauty is often flawed
To the eye
That can not see in black and white