The Spinner

Descending down onto her stage,

With utmost poise

Utmost grace.

Her stage,

One pitiful in size.

But one of intricate design.

A thousand different lines,

All intertwine,

To make one.

Covered in the morning dew,

Glistening with pure

Brilliance.

The essence of her life’s work.

Captured.

Frozen in time.

No orchestra here,

A simple blue jay’s cry

Is the signal for

Showtime.

And so she begins.

To dance.

To spin.

Wearing not a flowing gown,

But shabby widow’s weeds,

Her beauty is uncanny.

Yet with a mysterious

Elegance

Beyond human comprehension,

She draws in a crowd.

They flock to her

Fixated, allured.

The morning sun rays’

Her spotlight.

All attention on her.

She loves the attention.

She lives for it.

She loves seeing her reflection in their eyes.

So she enchants.

Encircling them,

She enthralls.

Weaving a silent tale,

Casting an invisible spell,

Right before their glazed pupils.

Then she spins.

And spins.

And spins.

Spinning,

Her trade.

Her fate.

Her life.

And when she’s done,

She gives no curtain call,

But dances straight up to

Her audience.

And calls them

Up to her.

Still transfixed,

Still obsessed,

They obey.

And with her

Strong, unsightly

Mandibles

Rips their heads off,

Suck their insides out,

And let their corpses drop down.

Down to the

Cold, hard ground.

And the spider,

She crawls back to her web,

Awaiting her next audience.

Her next meal.