No spider ever died with limbs spread wide.
It curls up so small.
All the webs and silk and string,
spun alone and empty.

Does the spider wish to be,
Another thing?
A bumblebee?

Surrounded by a family,
Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

The happy bee cannot sit still,
Of happiness there is no fill,
It only knows of what it can be,

Not the spider, never me.

But what does the happy bee know of spiders?
Lonely murderers living beside us.
Lovely dancers silently solo,

Moving in beautiful synchronous steps,
Delicate movements dancing with death.

Dignity stolen by pressure released.
That is the secret when it is deceased.
The spider does not curl up when it dies.

To imply this cowardice,
is to deny what is.
So let us leave this spider be,
To dream itself a bumblebee.