In the turn of October’s Grace, He spins His web too far out.
Anchor points, auxiliary spirals, primary radil.
The wind catches, the silken tomb shaking, trembling; His dearest creation frays and weeps for His assistance. To no avail, as this breeze is a nasty one.
Goodbye, His countless attempts at security. His claw, His tarsus reaches out to the Ether for something promising.


Flawless kills and chelicerae snap in repeat. A Death’s Head Hawkmoth isn’t a welcoming victim. In the stands of His disrupted home, a wing tangles tight.
This intruder ***** with vigour, and He does not bite. His inability to take flight is one that He recognises with questions towards His potency.

This intruder is an anomaly; he cuts Her free.