The moon’s naked curves spill into the night,
A spider slinks out to spin silver on a loom.
Here she weaves fatal beauty, a lethal lace.
She clings most pernicious, her design sweet,
And spins with finesse a cunning deceit.
Dew gilds her work like a fine strand of pearls,
Proclaiming her an empress of allure.
She spits silk with the nimblest precision,
An intricate scheme to impress and lure,
A masquerade of devious impulse.