My heart’s an open web,
yet to see its thin and fragile
white fibers spindled into art—
into the unique mastery of
the individual spider.

I may pull ideas from my books,
extract inspiration from those around me;
I may learn from my experiences,
and use them to cultivate something great;
but My Web has yet to unfold itself
into patterns of Me.

Like the spider’s web,
my life is no hand-tracing,
my being you cannot copy + paste;
I am an original—
you will not find me elsewhere.

And once I’ve spun my web,
when, perhaps, I’m old and gray,
one might only hope
to find themselves ensnared in its magnificence
forever.
(One, meaning, Me).

Brinn W.