Let’s take a look beneath.
I see you weaving webs,
occupying more and more space,
pushing out all that you deem wrong,
all that you believe doesn’t belong.
You have grown to hate even the fly on the wall.
Not making a sound,
that fly will watch you
get caught in your own spider webs,
listen to you scream
as your poison dissolves
you, and no one else.
Without a buzz,
in silence,
it will pray…
That those webs turned into a cocoon,
that the poison was there to liberate you,
that there is more than meets the eye,
and you are not about to self-destruct,
but turn into a butterfly
Spirit of Tara 