Aren't we all
the spider
a trespasser, misunderstood for such earnest and
silent plodding?

For it it is just a march
Across roads we claim
As our own-
He, A foe so at ease
Picking the terrain like
strings without rehearsal.  
To couple and  produce
a life too big
To quantify; each easy offspring
Another body to pinch
Out.

Fall has its way
With his march
And signals the
Small ship in the
bottle of his chest
to journey to dangerous claims
To soldier over dry river beds
To pull from his
Body a map
Only known
to the stars.

Don't we all want the same?
To quiet the lips of life's
loud and demanding mouth,
to pull the teeth of each of our helpless spearings?
To walk on stready, unwavering limbs
effortlessly.
To feed a deep, strange thirst that begs of us
to cross that thin
red Line
as Treacherous
as it may be.
To grab ahold and shuck
The hands
That hold
Our truth.