In a world gone awry,
where hate burns brighter
than the light in our sky,
spin webs like a spider—
contraptions of lie after lie.
But for every brown recluse’s snare
of incandescent, silky twine—
a place where poisonous lack of care—
a place where upon their prey they dine—
there’s always that peacock arachnid,
busily spinning in their vibrant color.
Their disposition knows no venom,
and their nature harvests no rancor.
The spinning spun
are homes, instead,
where they colorfully radiate
from their silky twine.
They home-make dewy drapes,
creating a forest of thread—
a blanketing matrix,
reflecting prismatic shine.
Because of the few toxic ones,
many are willing to devastate every spider.
But arachnids will always rebuild their homes—
even the harmless one was a born fighter.