I met a black widow, weeping
crimson tears from 8 wrists
who spun sorrow into silk
twisting into dew,
dark souled soliloquies,
sailed out from humble mandibles
denying the web she made was hers,
I lay wrapped in wanton webs
screaming into emerald twins
who refused to accept that
the fly who wore her tears
was not afraid of beating his wings
hard enough to prove that even the
strongest web can break.
And it did.
The widow still shone black
but her wrists wove words
of clarity and beauty and the hairs on her head
waved while she sang syllables into the ears
of the one who she thought would perish
He lay beside her, wrapped up in wonder
of she who spun mutual silence into
artifacts of affection.