A spider got lost. As it rains, 
it spun a web around its neck, 
every time it spoke, the nest
grew, overpowering words rest
near the drain pipe’s shaft,
it’s chaos, not far, a singularity.
 
Water doesn’t touch it, doesn’t 
destroy it. Apparently lies 
are immune to fact. Rationality 
can’t destroy what is already
dead. We face a peculiar way
to undress our tight reality.

Fear of spiders, overblown, 
knit lies, noise, dusty haze.

It’s incomprehensible as long
as we evade their woven lies. 

Once there, fear shifts, once 
spiders, now it’s rain, no one
in sight, awake at night, web
intact, but still afraid it might
rain, lives destroyed, aware
of their bile, it falls apart,
but it doesn’t as long as fear
appropriates the singularity.  

Once a teardrop, once a spider, 
as a tear, we rained over them, 
as a spider, lies spun into stem
cells that transformed into me,
you, anyone not immune to be 
fearful of the chaotic: the draft 
felt as we lost control over facts.
 
If ever fearful, tempted to rain 
around their neck, wait. If ever 
fearful, tempted to spin a web 
to create a tight reality, wait.  
If ever tempered red, tempted 
to drink your bile, wait. 
If ever tempered indigo, tempted 
to destroy steam cells, wait. 

Where patience dwells,
chaos doesn’t reign well. 
Rational thought prevails.
Signature Lina Ru