Born of pride and failure, they say.
A silent and despised artist,
Large and small
Hunted from fear.
The morning sun rises over their creation
Home
And dinner plate.
They and their work covered in dew,
Sparkling like diamonds.
Silently observing the world go by
Confident in their art
Unfazed by rain and wind.
Plain themselves and shy
And intelligent and full of life and cunning.
Dancing nimbly from a string as they do home repair.
Quickly eating, for who knows when the next meal will be.
Happy to be left alone, hoping they aren't spotted.
A parallel of beauty and ugliness.
Strength and weakness.
Tough and delicate.
Dancer and predator.
Artist and monster.
Somehow they are all of these at once.
But they don't care much for their public image.
All they can do is keep living
Breathing
Fighting
Surviving.
The sun sets over the trees of the house,
And night comes alive.
Fireflies blink in the darkness and revel in the cool of the summer night.
The spider does not.
The blinking lights of fireflies show an empty web.
Art torn apart by fear and misunderstanding.
The sun rises, and dew drops drip weakly from the torn strands, where the spider no longer dances.
It is in the bushes
Ant food now.
Crushed.
Dead.
Gone.
By nothing more than fear
And a Converse sneaker.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All resemblance to actual people, places, incidents, or things is completely coincidental.
