Woe is me.

The morning defrosts itself,

Arriving without sound.

Who wants this?

There is no reason for sorrow,

and yet it sits beside you,

Comforting in a strange way

When it dawns upon you that you

Are nothing if not woe.

Like silk over emptiness,

Like a waterfall over oil

Like the moon shadowed by her own Night

You move through the hours carefully,

As if they might tear

You wonder if Arachne felt it too

that tremor between pride and punishment,

the loneliness of creation

when the gods stop watching.

So you light a candle

Turning to the wax for help

But it whispers the same secrets

The same thing you dread to hear

You rock beside the flame

thinking that perhaps the cruelest thread

is the one that binds you

to the moment of your own making.

It is a damned thing to wonder;

understanding is just another kind of hunger that bites back.

But

Even Arachne still spins.

Even you.