Tangled Web

The spider's legs curl inwards
to the centre
of a dark and poisonous carapace.
She hangs in shadowed gloom.

The web entangled
round empty husks
of happiness,
sucked dry through fangs
starving for a taste.

Hang now alone;
companion to the dust
that shrouds each sticky thread.
This is the house she's built

No matter that the walls
are true perfection
and that the sun glitters
through each faceted pane.
No matter these,
when naught more than a gust
of truth gently brushes
past, they crumble.

All that's left is the spider,
curled inwards,
empty of all but regret.