If that small headed spider
Knew the fate of web 
Built Days and nights
For his comfort and rest,

Would on day 
Turn out
To be but his 'caged deathbed'!

He'd never ever think of making a web.


If we new our expectations,
Were not more like this
Spiders Thready glimmering web,
We sure would be free,
From remorse and regret.


The spider makes it web,
And we make our expectations
Unquenchable instead.

Knowing not the truth,
That we are sure born free,
But a chain webs us,
Ironically here and there
Much similar like the spider's web.