The Web

Food was so long ago.

Belly light,
legs slow.

But they'll have to do.

My thread — getting thinner.

Still, it holds. Must hold.

In stillness I wait.

My hunger must go quiet.
My body must listen.

The threads finely tremble.

Something comes.

Something sharp.
Something… heavy.
Something… too full.

It’s not prey. It’s too loud.
It’s not wind. It’s too sharp.
It’s not…

It went through.

The entire sheet ripped apart.
Stuck to what went through.
Sheer force struck a moment after.

Nothing to cling to. I fall.

Body hits a branch below.

Not far,
but far enough.

For a moment
I don’t see through my eyes.

This branch—
close enough to survive,
too far to be safe.

I try to stand. Stagger.

A broken leg lays in front of me.

Mine?

Pain…

Horror…

I wince.

Another leg
hangs from a thread above me —
still twitching
from the impact.

Each step,
agony.

Inside things
coming outside
where the legs broke.

Nothing remains
of what was web.

I start to climb. Fall. I try again.

New thread forms to step on —
it slips.

New thread doesn’t hold now.

No old catch, no new food.

No old tremblings,
no new sound.

Wait.

Not for hope.
For stillness.
For anything.

Nothing else remains to do.

---

thread no longer sings
a leg twitches in silence
hunger does not leave

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