tired spiders
weaving their webs by rote
each hallow husk in its sunday best
attached to the cobwebs that
cover the pews of the decaying chapel
they spin and spin and spin and spin
and end up back where they begin
round and round
they wrap themselves,
encased in smooth
and shiny silk
present themselves
so god may feast
not god above,
but god below,
the Lord of the Flies