There is a spider on the clock face
And I cannot look away,
Staring at its journey across the hands
Horror legs scuttling through time,
Silken strands entombing the gears
Like it is a gift,
But the clock is wrong,
The calendar too young,
There is a voice in the stars telling me to come home:
I have never been so early for a reunion
That I will miss it entirely,
And the spider dangles precariously
from the corner of the five;
A pendulum swinging me farther from the stars.