The Spider weaves a dream of death
Fluid silk like ruby-wine.
Strangled mem'ries of the past
Hath thy wreched web entwin'd.

Glory be to those who mourn
But let thy stranger see.
A cup of blood to wash me down
Lest you forget yon boatman's fee.

Autumn rains turn cold the earth
Sending ashes to & fro.
But nevermore refuse to cry
My home, to Styx, I flow.

*~*~*

A little girl runs thru the wood
And stumbles on our friend.
Then all the stars come crashing down.
Arachna's dream hath end.