The arachnid mother twirls me
in her merciful dance,
putting me out of misery,
leaving an apathetic corpse
leeched of sanguine desire.
She’s no thief, as I willingly uncork
this ripened organ of arbitrary satiety,
allow it to drain dry
and watch my essence wither away.
The last rainfall is long gone,
and this spider will climb up again,
but I’ll be long forgotten;
the mud stuck to the bottom of your shoes.