Misunderstood, that's what I say. I'm a muse
of beauty, of silk woven from self.  My patterns
entice the morning dew to linger upon my
creations of simplistic beauty, tears fall.

I do not invite your destruction of what was
versed from my being. But your jealousy entraps
you to destroy what you have not naturally woven.
Tattered strings of my nights work fall and I
tirelessly recreate what was portrait of my worth.

Weaving my creations, I will not falter from
my course. Heed my whispers for without
me flies would converge upon your dwellings.
But I take pride in my work of collecting undesirables.
I sit silently patiently, this is my life's work.