Silver spindles manifest, each one unique; artistry at the tip of eight long fingers--crafted carefully to catch curious creatures; trapped by the allure of Circe’s web of lies. Glistening and bright from distances, yet dead upon impact; sticky, dull.
A corner, so decorated with cobwebs and dust; Arachne spins her loom in the dark, a room, that is used seldom, with the exception of the dinner show; always on time, 8 o’clock sharp. Witness the cunning I lack, benevolence she disregards; a fly—simple in intelligence, but chaotic when trapped in a small room; nuisances that need dealing with.
Once caught, the struggling ignorant victim chokes on mistakes of days past, cheating on a test, beating the ******* boy; observed errors of judgment, punishable by death. Every victim is different, but each is caught screaming, praying, gasping for life, only to be muffled, hushed, stifled; No remorse during mealtime.