The Web
The Web
With an unequalled skill,
Spins the spider her web.
The spider will stop at nothing
To get her kill.
But in what beauty
Lies the art of kill
But in nature?
We behold the hunter,
And huntress,
With a certain beauty
Of which entrants us.
When we see the spun web,
Glistening in the sun,
We think of beauty.
When we see the awful bear-trap,
With the horrific jaws of death,
We only then begin to think.
Is the spider like us?
Maybe that web does not
Appear so beautiful anymore.
04-27-2011
05/05/2011
Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality.
T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| A Gentle Breeze | 1 | 04/25/2011 |
| The Sun: Tyrannt or Saint | 1 | 04/25/2011 |
| Lessons of the Stream | 0 | 04/25/2011 |
| Freedom | 0 | 04/25/2011 |
| Ode to the Future | 1 | 04/25/2011 |
| Elegy to the Past | 1 | 04/25/2011 |
| The Web | 1 | 04/25/2011 |
| Blindness | 3 | 04/22/2011 |
| The Infinite Mind | 1 | 04/22/2011 |
| Why Argue | 0 | 04/21/2011 |
| My Quiet Abode | 0 | 04/21/2011 |
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