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You the daddy long legs, and the silver web it spins
Slowly drawing connections and building bridges
A trap for anyone who sets foot in your territory.
The architect who designed the bridge to fall on yourself,
the accidental death.
When you are alone, you shake and move,
scuttling with suspicious eyes and jerky movements.
But everyone knows that you can shake and move and intimidate all you want:
your mouth is too small to bite,
we aren't afraid, no matter how much you want to fight.
You come in groves, never willing to leave those you love,
loyal to the end,
loyal til death.
If you were alone, you would be a different person.
Nobody knows who you really are,
in the dark of night when the moon shines bright,
and you finally unfurl yourself, like a flower in the spring.
Who are you, little spider?
Who are you?
It is a question I should know the answer too,
but there are many things I know nothing of,
and don't understand.
But why would we know?
Who would want get that close to a spider, anyways?
We are too afraid, and assume too easily
that your only use is catching flies.
You are the element silver,
stretchy and soft, and valuable.
You conduct the heat of passion and
the electricity of emotion,
a conduit of feelings and information,
making others pain your own,
until you have no more of yourself to give.
And it is then, little spider, that I must ask:
“Who are you?”