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La Araña Poem Written By TheBookworm Apr 2014

La Araña Poem Written By TheBookworm Apr 2014

Spider Poem

La Araña Poem Written By TheBookworm Apr 2014

La Araña Poem Written By TheBookworm Apr 2014

La Araña Poem THE SPIDER POEM

It sat there, as still as the dead, waiting. It had to keep very still; it was listening, waiting for the right feeling. It checked, cocking its head to the side. Nothing yet. If it could huff, it would have. It had been there all day yesterday and all night. Waiting. It shook its head; the sun would surely be out soon. It suddenly felt a bit insecure – would all this work, this art it had worked so hard to build, be for nothing? It shifted its spindly legs; it was getting uncomfortable just waiting. It stretched them out long, then retracted them once again. It was still listening; still waiting. How much time had passed? A minute? Two? An hour? It wished it could tell time. Yet, it acknowledged, it didn’t need to. It could make art, and it could eat and it could walk. That was enough it really needed, in the end. It admired its artwork this time – really admired it, with its sweeping symmetry and complex patterns. It had simply outdone itself. It felt quite proud, and might’ve rubbed its legs together for joy, if it had not been for the small vibration it felt. It paused. It titled its head left, maybe it could hear more that way. Nothing.

No; wait. There was something…yes! It licked its lips.

Quickly and with so much joy it could hardly contain itself, it scrambled up from its position between the apex of the leaning wooden shovel and the wooden wall of the little shack. It felt the vibrations more furtively now, and that just made it crawl all the faster. It scurried until it finally reached its prey.

Once, it almost felt sorry for the poor thing. But that once had been long ago, and now, it knew the wickedness of the world all too well. It had to take every chance it got when it came to spinning. It approached the buzzing creature with compassion. It spoke in hushed tones as it slowly wound the fly in its silk – a soft lullaby of peace and serenity. The fly seemed to like this, for it yawned and almost drifted asleep. Slowly, so very slowly, the fly’s multi-lensed eyes drifted closed, a calmness coursing through its body. Suddenly, the fly’s eyes burst wide open.

Oh, the taste! What a delicacy this was, oh what wonderful juice! It lost itself in a haze of crimson. Nearly torn apart in ecstasy, it smiled, teeth glowing with what little moonlight there was. The fly stared back at it, aghast and eyes filled with cold, dead fear.

This was its favorite part.

Dinner.

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