Congealed: Master Meal

The spider weaves its web of lies,
Entraps its mortal kin.
The fly it weeps, it moans, it dies,
Knowing its story will end.

The spider crawls higher and higher.
Cocoons those who fell asleep.
It lurks in the darkest of places,
Waits to sample; to taste.

A tasty morsel.
A fresh delight.
To tickle the palate,
and talented tongue.

A feast awaits return,
Down its thick, voracious, gullet.
Fangs struck, and slurp asunder,
Drink down the gutted malt.

Deals death in its strands,
Of silk spun yarn,
But still lures away the dim.
A question, its eight hold.

Those who flee its peril,
Escape terror’s spine crawling chill.
Their cause is weighted down,
Because the spider perceives the mind.

So I ask, oh spider,
Of vicious plight,
Are you yours? Or mine?
Dangling beneath the sky.