Weavers

 

Weaver of webs,

walking on eight legs.

A tightrope walker extraordinaire,

balance and poise as it surveys its lair.

Looking down to see what feast,

awaits his gaze upon these threads.

 

Weaver of nightmares,

dark as midnight

he creeps slow and menacing,

each footfall predatory.

His prey sleeps,

stuck in place, trapped no escape,

fated to be on the spider’s dinner plate.

 

Weaver of stories,

watches on.

Twisting the yarns,

enlisting the moonlight

to add to the tales spun.

 

Weaver of webs,

weaver of tales that spin through your head.

Weaver of threads,

that keep us awake in our beds.

Trapped thoughts

infest us with dread.

Like insects and bugs landing on strands,

implanting thoughts wherever they stand.

Throughout the night wherever they loiter

stories of woe they will embroider.

 

 

Thanks for reading.

Peace, Love and poetry

Kyle