Family Web
The wedding bells are ringing but there never was a groom.
A meddler softly singing in the corner of the room begins to
Rise on legs of eight I count, a spider some might say.
Proudly as if descending on a greatly sought out prey.
Halfway down the aisle, though, it torques his head improper
To see a man with dampened eyes from failed attempts to stop her.
A flower; no? Though spotted black, excretes aroma spiders lack.
But then again, what good’s a nose? For eyes point out he’s not a rose.
A swifter pace ahead provokes a glace o’er to the right,
To find a man insisting for the meddler’s sudden flight.
This shiny trinket sparkling draws the focus of the beast,
And without a hesitation, it dismisses any feast.
The man who promised not to speak begins to say a word,
But saline breath grips hold of him to make sure no one heard.
So there she lies caught in a net, consumed with sorrow and regret.
A pride too big for former hope confirms starvation on a rope.
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