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Lyn-Purcell Aug 8

Flawless is her art
Life now drips from every thread
Silk now spun in dark


New day, new haiku!
Now that I've done with the Pleiades, I'm back to other women of myth!
This one is for Arachne. Now she always stood out to me.
The myth I grew up with is that she was overly arrogant and proud about her talents. Athena challenged her and well, Athena lost. Even the Goddess of Wisdom and Handicrafts was in awe of Arachnes work. As Ovid said, Athena couldnt find 'a fleck or flaw—even Envy can not censure perfect art'. But then, Arachne didnt portray the gods in a good light either. (Tbh, most myths are about the Gods being ******* to humans AND each other). Athena tore the loom, in jealous rage and we all know what happened, Arachne became a spider. There are in fact two alternate stories with the same ending. One is the one I grew up with, Athena cursed her to be a spider, but the other one is that Arachne ended her life as the Goddess destroyed her proudest work and she was turned into a spider out of pity. Either way, I was alluding to a spider with the last line. Ironically, while writing this, I saw two spiders in my living room and several baby spiders in my garden.
Which doesn't help my arachnophobia 😅😅😅
Anyway, thank you all for growing followers! 376 followers! I'm forever humbled and grateful for the support🙏🌹💜
Here's the link for the growing collection:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/132853/the-women-of-myth/
Be back tomorrow with another one!
Much love,
Lyn 💜
DIPTI DHAKUL Nov 2019
Suit my personality like these
Clothes Suit there weather.

Suit my personality like those
thread suit their Weave.
© Feelings Coated
a guy
in wild
sox seize
this roof
with threadbare
darts and
trim top
with gad
of post
and prove
velvet goest
with cream
here this
base ardently
shin eaves
in our
free fall
Poetic T Jan 2019
Woeful trepidations cling to me,
                  like morning cobwebs.
                                  The dew of hostility
          filtering into my subconscious.


And the spider feeds on the woven
                       chrysalis of my despairs.
I'm in a closet of silk and the fangs are
                                        gentle but intrusive..

Every dewdrop falling evaporates
                                            on my forehead.
Falling into the morning haze of despondency .
           Fear is a word that I awaken to,
                                 beyond the sunrise.


Forever in a web of dewdrops collecting
                       evermore on my thoughts.
Are the weakness of self a demise or
rather a strength,  to weave my own web on.
Nick Stiltner Sep 2018
Why does the morning pass by so quickly?
The grey light fades steadily away
as the sun reaches the top of its ascent.
Empty coffee cups, the bottom layered with grounds,
sit on the desk by the window.

Sewn into the fabric, intricately woven,
the multi colored threads begin to overlap
and are tightened, pulled through by the sure hand
of the passing hours.

The outline blurs,
the voice of memory begin to dissolve.
The faded face mouths the words
but I cannot remember the sound,
lost to the piling sands
at the bottom of the hourglass.
Alyssa Aug 2018
Lies slip from her mouth
Waiting for the web to be unraveled
She watches them stumble and fall into her trap
Disappointed, everytime.

The strings of fate wait
It is a game that none but her see
She grasps them and weaves a story from threads and her friends
All around, people become beads

She weaves the strands of the game
From her fingers, a tapestry unfolds
Showing a path that few have ever seen before
Once, a game masterfully won
Simra Sadaf Jun 2018
she weaved lies into her words
that seemed like light,
what a candle does to the dark,
the way your eyes turned bright,
turned brighter,
as you soaked in all the lies,

you wrapped your heart and
left it beside her bed,
she opened it desiring something
materialistic,
it's true, the laws of love and morals
are long dead,
and you sit there writing about better days like a mystic,

your faith and emotions in darkness now languish,
falling into pieces with this never ending anguish,
haunting memories, feeling diminished by sobriety,
you get drunk in the wine of morose poetry.
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