Transculent threads run up and down
Old planks of wood-
Upright and close together,
Like distant cousins leaning towards each other
And whispering sweet condolences
At a funeral.
The spider weaves her heavy web
Out of weightless air,
Intricately trapping
Suicidal fruit flies
And drops of dew,
Reflecting off the shriveled corpses of
Unfortunate insects,
Casting a subtle shadow
Upon the indifferent shrubbery:
Infected with parasites that fail to even
Acknowledge his heavy existence.
"I'm here", he desperately wails,
"Beneath your spindly legs
And despair ridden hearts,
Full of something like ambition, but of a different tone,
Beating on and on below your silent wings."
Deaf to his compassion,
They lay tangled in their fate,
Accepting death
From the moment the spider drew close
And caressed their sorry souls with her
Delicate finger tips.
His emerald tendons wear her web-
For, the past won't let him shake it.
An old man
Who keeps the shawl of his late wife,
Wrapped a little too tightly
Around his frail, veiny throat,
Just to know she was once there,
And to keep her from ever really dying.
So the bush cloaks his body
With the cobwebs of the savage spider,
Adorned with corpses
Of insects too passive
To question that which required their lives.
Alone in silent ceremony,
He gravely continues on,
Beneath the dance of life and death,
Yet never fully numb to it all,
His nerves twitch and shake with the presence
Of something gradually taking it's course.
Life flows in and out of his branches,
Like a tumultuous waterfall
Giving life to all around it,
While drowning those too weak to follow
In it's unalterable current.
And so, another day goes by,
But to the forest, it's all the same,
For none can hear the old bush cry,
Mourning each fragile bug by name.
