A spider lives outside of my house, attached to the light fixture and to the garage exterior wall. She's lived there since the spring, when spider's of that nature are born. Created. Hatched.
I've watched her and her webs grow in size and complexity, and everytime I smoke a cigarette I watch her hang motionless on her web waiting for the fly.
Tonight he came.
She shook the web after he made contact,
she made sure the silken strands were stuck tight to his meager body,
she sprinted across the web and wrapped her long, spindly legs around the body of the fly, and fangs like knives injected her venom deep into the fly.
Not killing him, not yet, no, but taking him as close as he was likely to have ever been, and encasing him in web.
Perched offcenter her silken throne, she awaits the fly.
Fell circumstance surrounds and encases and encircles; who am I but a prisoner to fate, a lackey to those ropes and webs and ties? I'm a pawn in this and in all things, a facilitator but rarely receiver of great things; for you, I am glad to have rendered this service, but know that it breaks my being to have given it to you. I trust you know well what must be done; take hold, now, take aim and ready your rifle, draw clear your bead and make way. My place?, no, my place is not to stand here, not in sight in mind in sound in vision in thought, no, off over and away, far from this disc of misanthropy. I cannot tolerate more, I cannot, but I fear I must.
Let me take and let me keep this for myself; you can only consume so much,
let me maintain this vestige of hope that there can be delivery.
Let me stay this road that I might leave,
let me maintain this thing that I might know -
let me have this favor, this boon, this mercy.
Let me know it alone.
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