The grey spider dawn of day
stealthily swings from the dome,
sinewy, bold, a metronome.
She waltzes on moated keys
depressing letters with ease.
A bone bread mix morning,
squishy, sticking to the spoon,
She stirs the daily cocoon
while imagining her prize,
a warm web on the rise.
The noon’s typhoon saturates,
tiny lashes turn her numb,
and like that her chores half-done.
The downpour like daggers;
she spins silk and staggers.
Dinosaur dig afternoon,
dirty cobwebs are exhumed;
she repairs a stale tomb.
Someone else’s skeleton
offers the day’s first medicine.
Evening requires pattern,
her spinnerets unroll
the day’s dense batter holds
symmetrical wings, chewy chatter;
she wills her prey to be fatter.
When the sun recklessly flies
into evening’s hidden mesh,
It won’t wiggle its fiery flesh
but softly submit its rays–
death to another full day.
© khartless 2021, All Rights Reserved
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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