The Dance of Death

There it sat, an arachnid perched upon the Venus’s maw,
darkly brown, eight-legged and hailing from night’s Plutonian shore.

Six beady black eyes twitching and glistening with a paltry dream,
full of mischief and cunning, did this arachnid seem.

Ever so close to death did it like to dance, sitting above the Venus in a trance,
sitting with all its cleverness and snark, this devilish little shark.

The Venus released a pheromone, a fragrance that chilled the bone,
waiting to catch this arachnid liar, waiting for it to fall into its fryer.

The arachnid, too quick to be caught, ran across Venus like good sport;
Venus was too slow, too drowsy to play, but fought throughout this day.

Now the night has come in tempest, the arachnid grows restless,
the time to go has come and will not return with the dawning sun.

the devil is ringing

And the Venus is singing, the arachnid has slipped, stupidly, in a restless fit;
the Venus’ trap was sprung,

Thus the arachnid dances no longer, now its end Is no longer,
the hunger for Venus no longer,
the fun over, the friendship over, the end.