Song of the Spider
I the dark lord of arts unknown to men,
Who weave unseen such inflorescent wiles,
As neither shall exalt nor swift condemn—
Though corymb, umbel, or panicle beguile—
Alert Arachnids hear my buried sighs!—
Emboldened undertakings to divest
Our fallen prey of lights under the skies,
The shoal of time, the fenestrated webs,
Who thence provide a nourishment unmined,
Rights of burial, court inheritance,
If by law’s embrace what’s mine is thine,
Or thine mine by nature’s savage dance.
For heartless though I seem within this breast,
By battle, not by idol, deem me blest!
Copyright © 1995 Sam Gold