Right outside my window I watch them ripple,
the woven snares, feather tapestries billowing light
on intermittent breezes turning art into performance.
The lacey geometric strands, unfathomed mathematic
puzzles, wait stickily for unsuspecting edibles to alight.
Welcome victims, they’re greeted warmly with tight
cocoons, their death shrouds, later to be consumed
as treats when the mood may strike their host,
the eight-legged no escape artist quick to make
guests uncomfortable in his weightless accommodation,
a place where they’ll check in but can never leave,
the sheets tucked so tight that wiggle room’s gone to die,
unjust so these entombed slaves of this king or queen,
serve up as servants to ingest, digest, become art.
The webs resemble cotton candy, I think pink and spun,
sweet, but all diabetes, undetected, and in the end, death.
I can almost hear the hapless insects scream tiny screams
then sigh the way to dusty death, their last breath
a testament to the awesome power of the death artist.
[Aloha, Friends. From time to time I add this note to my daily rough drafts. The version that pops into your inbox has often changed by the time you receive it. These are rough drafts, and they change all the time. Sometimes even the title has changed. Stay tuned : ) ]