Creeping, crawling, are they calling?
As they weave from up above
Watching without an ounce of love
Fashioning reams of silk to throw
Soon you’ll meet their fangs of woe
Silent as the air around
Will they ever be seen or found?
Making home in dark corners
Waiting for prey to cross borders
Trapped within the web of lies
Until the spider collects its prize
Cocooning its next meal
Which will be a feast ideal
Then it mends its silk net
Before retiring to place its bet
Ready for the next fool
Which it will devour cruel

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