Michael’s Beastie

Weaver of thread
spun from the edge of sundown.
From the catchfly of flame
Michael tells me of his spider.
His narrative trembles
with intuitive understanding
of his peril.
The beautiful that wears
a death mask.
A warning to the innocent
that danger is bestowed
to the frail and fragile
whose bewitching forms
invite the senseless cruelty
of the callous.
Punishment for those
who would trespass on
midnight black
and red tattoos
of a beastie,
and be unaware
of what they offend,
by the dross of venom
in their tiny fangs.