the trap is set

it's early

in the morning, the sun barely

above

the links of fences

that contain

the squared yards of houses

bricked together

almost as one.

and there beside the chair,

strung

in a fine woven

tapestry 

is a spider's web.

the tendrils of beauty 

drip

wet with dew.

immense in form

and fragile, the slight breeze

pushes

it forward

and back while

the fat black widow,

a queen of sorts, sits

calmly in the middle

waiting patiently, 

waiting

for who's to come

next.

oh how i wish i could take

time back.