The silkworm sleeps a long slumber,

Is burned before life can be breathed again,

Her body is boiled,

Her bedchambers broiled,

Now decorate the bodies of affluent ladies of good renown,

The spider spins his careful string,

Close to his flimsy flesh is his flimsy thread,

His thread spins the patterns only nature knows

A scream is heard in the dead of night,

The spider is slain, ignored his plight,

Dreams are spun like the spider of a thread,

They’re simply clutter,

They’re brushed away,

Nothing more than cobwebs of the mind,

But sometimes found,

Boiled and refined,

To create décor for the soul,

Like the silk of the late worm, the silk of the late mind,

Perhaps the virtuous silkworm,

And the vilified spider,

Are not so dissimilar,

From the threads of our mind,

Then why are we unkind,

To the silkworm,

The spider,

Perhaps because,

We are unkind to our own dreams,

Our own mind,

We broil our dreams,

Dust away the cobwebs of our mind.