The Weaving Spider

(for Phantasmagoria)

Whirring and spinning, the silken threads billowing
Out of my anus, with artistry cunningly
Tidy, concentrical, tasteful, and elegant,
Falling and climbing from heights that are stunningly
Bold for my stature, I weave a new domicile:
Temple of order, like words from the seraphim
Knit into fine nets to catch up the fluttering
Souls for the Lord who's sustained on their love of Him.
I am an angel, exemplar of piety;
My house is holy, and artfully intricate,
Binding, hypnotic: the senses enticingly
Beckon to touch my work, fragile and delicate.
Come and pay homage unto the Creator whose
Love of the beautiful shines in my tapestry;
Golden-winged creature of fine and rare breeding. Come
Hither, my butterfly! Hither to me!

George Chadderdon © 1996