I sat in an ancient room, tiny and dust filled,
Cobwebs filled all corners and old paint tins and other rubbish-clogged the space.
The door was ancient timber, dried from thousands of days of hot sun.
I sat in the dusty silence and reflected on my life and the lives of those around me.
People I know and have met,
People who are millionaires, people with brain tumors,
People trying to tell their parents they are gay;
People trying to tell their kids why the marriage has failed.
I sat and thought about these things and myself,
My own insecurities
When I saw, bobbing as if caught in a breeze
A long legged spider walking up the door next to me.
The door, so old and dry,
Allowed sunlight to spill in between gaps in the timber.
The spider, bobbing still,
Walked silently and delicately as if she were made of crystal,
Up and up and up.
When she stepped into the light, she glowed,
When she entered the shade, she disappeared.
She did this for five minutes,
Bobbing and climbing.
She was so small, so thin and delicate
I wondered what she would eat? A fly being many times larger than she.
Too delicate, too thin, for this world.
A spider, eight legs, of beauty.
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