He sits at his desk, a pen in his hand
An epic, a story, a tome to be had
He’s ready to write, he’s scheming quite grand
Infantile rhyme schemes already planned

But the spiders, they rise from the salt of the earth
They crawl in his door and assess his wide girth
Ideas? They’ll steal ‘til he has a great dearth
Of plot plans, of characters, something of worth

Toward him they crawl, as he sits at his desk
Licking knees and elbows, the sight is grotesque
Higher they climb, and they reach his chest
Our hero, my friends, is delayed on his quest

The ear canal, named fittingly, inside it they squirm
They lay claim to it just as egg is by sperm
“Are there ideas?” “Yes, indeed,” they confirm
The spiders, they eat them, as bird would a worm

Soon after, the spiders, they flee, and they’ve fled
Now the man is left without thoughts in his head
“If I cannot write, I’d rather be dead!
Inspiration I’ll find, it must not go unsaid!”

So the man decides to hunt them all down
And Arachne, their leader, the one with a crown
Who ordered his thoughts to be killed, to drown
And stole every adjective, verb, and noun

“Where does one find spiders?” the man thought aloud
Apprehension hung over, a thick, weighty cloud
“But I must finish my story!” he then avowed
So into the earth, he dug and he plowed

Finally he reached the spiders’ abode
Approaching the throne room, he stumbled and slowed
Desecration and death, his surroundings forebode
Alas, he was desperate to finish his ode

Arachne was seated, high on her chair
Tall and stately, and covered in hair
He froze, caught in her many-eyed stare
“Hello, traveler, welcome to my lair.”

“Return to me the thoughts I hold dear,
I refuse to cower before you in fear.”
“Tiny human, let me make something clear
“They’re mine now,” the spider rasped with a sneer

And for many hours, the two negotiated
Until the man was left acutely frustrated
He thrust his sword into her flesh--penetrated
But her solid carapace only regenerated

She growled and she frothed, she threw him aside
He knew there was nowhere to run or to hide
All the spiders came toward him in a singular stride
After innumerable bites, our hero does die

Wake with a start
Warm blankets and sheets
Swing legs over the edge
Stand up and leap
Toward the desk
Flick the light on
Flip open notebook
Write.

In-spidered by a not-so-true story.