Spin your web, dearest little spider,
Almost to the point of obsession.
You don't eat, you don't sleep, you just work.
Who do you weave your masterpiece for, dearest?
Surely not yourself.
You wouldn't put that much time and effort into something that was yours.
You would suffice with just a simple little thing, but not this, you've worked too hard for this. And the the expected happens,
You don't want it to, you hope it won't, but it happens.
The weaver and it's creation are destroyed.
How could such an ugly thing make something so beautiful?
It matters not, you see,
For we condemn that which we do not understand,
Which means it's easier,
Little spider, for us to obliterate you.
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This heart was bequeathed darkness, and thus it became
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