Mister Spider is never in a rush.
He walks down through the wall with the indifference of a super-rich
and the shameless audacity of a politician.
Once in a while he stops as if he smelled
the air or suddenly remembered
something he forgot to do before leaving
and he couldn't figure out clearly,
but that he must ignore to keep on way
because it's impractical halting to look backwards
when there is so much to swallow foreward:
the exciting helplessness of some prey
caught in his networks,
the intoxicanting scent of some naive
insect lost among the threads of a wall
or mesmerized by the glittering of a window.
Mister Spider takes his time.
There is no hurry.
The world is an intricate web unfolded
before his feet moving around diligent as refined
tentacles willing to wrap up
the smallest details for the profitable feast.
In the busy comings and goings from up to down
there is bearly time to stop on
the spent minutes or the gone hours.
He dissects everything, thoroughly, to his consumption.
Waiting thounsand years is nothing, wasting a second is too much.
You only have to compute the pulses and vibrations
of the overstreched bodies.
To remain still a whole life if it's necessary.
To change your skin once in a while.
To perceive the agonizing death rattle at the end
of the glowing fiber where converge all the paths
that nourish the fresh stench of a life
crammed of so many lives.
