Your grip upon the silken cord grows weak <br />you pluck them something now like zither strings <br />It must be strange with no employ of wings <br />to hang between the moon and quiet lake. <br />Time and times again we're warned of the web <br />the livid maw that lurks at the wild center <br />I conclude that what we love we dread <br />and what we dread we love and long to enter. <br />I open duty's circle with a kiss <br />and on the prison of the sky turn key <br />to show the vistas vast of nothingness <br />that, after all, our hearts long most to see <br />and seizing in a spider's dark caress <br />you apprehend, at last, your fantasy.<br /><br />Morgan Michaels<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spider-27/
