Arachne

Grass is green here but only

A dark damp shade of blades that

Barricade

This Masquerade of Men.

A chapel,

Its walls of worn stone not yet

Crumbling down in vain

Like the men who stacked those heavy stones

And crafted that stained glass

Which reflects the flaws of men.

The glass which tells a story of men

Long ago who praised and were praised

And now live on

To the spiders who creep up their walls,

Those broken walls,

Venerated by the crawlers of the night.

When the sun doth shine upon the pane

Its wondrous array of blues

And reds

And yellows

Stream in and rest on empty pews

But of the spiders

How they crawl upon those holy kneelings

And curse the name of luxury.

And so those soft colors from sun

To pane

To pew

And to holy spider.

She will spin her web from

Glass to wood and make

Her sacred masterpiece

Amongst the absence of

Man,

Who prayed and sung and wept

Inside these walls

Atoning for their sin

Colors burst onto their bowing backs

Blessed and broken

All the more likely.

The spider will never kneel.

She will crawl.

Across her envy of the eight-legged

And the fear of all that fly

To fuel the searing venom

That nature lets her kill.

And so this murderous arachnid

Weaving unholy snares,

On rotting crosses.

And all that was God

And all that was praised

Must now make due

With her.

Queen of human ruin.