The times have ticked along like babies,
Spiders I mean, bursting from the tightly spun
Bundle of rounded web, a cocoon of motherly
Making for thousands of them – the times.
Going off in all directions, little eight
Legged times furiously scurry – for where?
What will be their lots, their plights, the
Fury of their fights and flights to live!
Even now they are dying; lives running down,
Yet still running onward without this knowing,
Spilling over the edges of the wooden bench
Spinning tiny getaway threads as they drop away.
Times go forth so purposeful, and I know not
Which to squish and which to grant favor,
(Randomness should hold forth among Gods),
Who am I to count death and life in choosing.
You hold to my hand and we waste time,
Giant ferris wheel turns in the night, lights
Aglow as lovers legs dangle and hearts are
Tied tightly in their cocoons of time turning.
A collection of arachnids which scurried
Safely into quiet corners for spinning these
New webs of memories, catching small creatures,
Granting no favor in drinking the blood of life.