Soothing shade in which, all dreams are made 

of – In the 

web of 

that which 

Lies. 

The Spider Spins Circumference. 

In the Grand 

Web 

Of 

Internal Hierarchy.

Ordained by nature. 

Layered by layer;

every pitch dignified, 

and every pinch,

a long-tuned convention. 

Weaved,

with narrow room

and unpleasant 

Foundation.

Shaking.

to a drop

as the positioned 

downdraft, hurls

You.

The perception of waiting,

seems so bland,

Tyrannical;

When one hangs from the branch of the web

doomed

towards an Exit.

The Mother Spider, observes from her perch.

As subliminal as,

Retreat is…

seems unfair.

When one lives in the High-Ground,

A role bestowed upon ritual awakening;

born bless-ed, for purpose.

What is it to douse one’s self in the skin, of the holy astral zero, 

they once shed?

A teetering promise

Made certain, 

by the scales,

and

by the breath

fueled in cold, 

of a frozen heart, still-beating.

The breath propels Warmth,

when it

snickers past the Teeth of the Serpent. 

As She the Serpent coils,

A glistening recall is made,

by Mother Spider. 

That such events

simply, did not occur;

to cause this war.

Brought to attention, 

by the one that wears the robes. 

A smirk, crinkles. 

Bow down or afflict narrowly.

Contemplates the Mother Spider.

One by One.

Side-stepping.

Crawling.

Diverting.

Until the tide turns

and green is ever-lasting. 

Even the Serpent knows she can reach,

The High-Ground,

Masking.

Maintaining. 

As she lives, 

Coiled sitting on rock

bottom. 

Waiting,

Patiently. 

Intuition divides time, anticipated. 

Amongst opportunists Seeking Glee, 

And those who aim to Secede 

from the Survival

of Struggle.