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Web
by Cecil Vernon Crumrine, Jr.

I marvel at the genius 
of the lowly spider 
busily spinning 
a brilliant maze
from mere wisps 
of pearlescent silk, 
creating a master etching 
suspended in space
as frail and delicate 
as  pillow lace... 

I anguish 
over the absence 
of the veracity of our passionless,
stilled hearts; 
I grieve 
for our steadfast refusal to build
our own lofty castles in the air;
I weep 
for the rhapsodic personae 
we once knew ourselves to be.
        
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Poem ID: 7141   Poem Posted: 8/23/1998
Viewed: 9842  Voted On: 108  E-mailed: 6  Commented On: 1
 
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Copyright , 1998, Cecil Vernon Crumrine, Jr.  all rights reserved by the author.
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