To the Greeks weaving was an allegory, of the art of poetry
Ovid\'s poetry reviled, by Augustus who had him exiled
Arachne mortal weaver sublime, hubris was her crime
So her art to scuttle, Athena beat her with her shuttle
Following the game the dame hung herself in shame
With pity Athena eyed her, then turned her into a spider
Cobwebs cling to me, lingering threads of what used to be
Memories broken pulled away glisten in the light of day
Strands once woven with care, fragments sticky tickle of despair
Pieces of what once was home now floating in air do roam
Hairs grown and cut, where happy life on eight legs did strut
Spun webs of lost communication now fall in trailing separation
Once a glistening pattern of lies, now swept, empty truth catches no flies
In sticky silk memories caught, lie my words under dust forgot