Captured in a cruel web
Her lurid wings flutter fast,
As she struggles hard against her fate
Body arched, the throes of death to wait,
No more to soar up to the heights
No more dancing around flowers aflame,
By curiosity drawn to her own demise
And to be a spider’s feast is such a shame,
Like her we’re here on borrowed time
A chance to shine for what it’s worth,
Drawn as moths around life’s flame
In our brief last dance upon this earth.
Diane Scantlebury
