Cobwebs

Laced between this old stairwell,
Are cobwebs where no spiders dwell.

Knitted nets of silken strings,
Crafted by some hungry things.

Their transient traps, once played in,
Are now broken shrines, unpreyed in.

For as the dust that gathers thickened,
Those little weavers must have sickened,

Since there is no trace of the being's face,
Just the tangled bones of their elder race.

Is this perhaps, just Nature's gleanings?
A forgotten cache from Mother's cleanings?

Did Arachnid find some better home,
Far away from this fallen Rome?

For once a strong and seductive grasp
Sipped sweet nectar, at life's last gasp...

Perhaps I'll peer in some other place,
And find their tapestries all replaced.

Then I will know I'm not really alone-
As long as the cobwebs feel right at home.

Johnathon Gallagher Circa 1980