Sooner or later,
one of us will dislocate ourselves
from this web of obsession.
I once watched a blowfly
caught in a spider's web
in the corner of a crooked window.
I watched while the fly struggled,
and I watched it, still, as the spider crept
its brittle robot-legs decisively
toward the stirring vibrations
of the fly.

I stood and kept on watching as the spider
reached the fly and embraced it
with an unswerving intent.
I listened to the fly's thrumming destiny;
I listened to the fly's unresigned tremor;
I stood and wished I had not watched...

...wished I had not waited;
wished I still had time
to release that throbbing victim,
the thin thread of life unravelling from its core.

But it was too late,
by the time I realized I did not want to witness
life's inevitable, life's plodding
consummation.

But it was too late, my dearest predator...
or, are you the struggling prey?
It was too late.