What Makes That Spider Divine

-I've seen of a scene serene,

the crumbling pinnacle of all that is paramount; 

an unanswered ringing from beyond the rift.

Do we grow in age to breed like plague, then fossilize,

leaving our remains behind, only to conscript custodians of our offspring.

Within an infinity we surmise,

do we compound our culture and knowledge throughout eons, 

in interpretation of this Earth and sky.

Have we prayed with our hands raised in a certain kind of way, 

and worshiped woefully,

-only to ask the questions, but give ourselves the answers.

Are we fish in a bowl, struggling fish swimming for shore,

against a cold, vacant cosmos; against a monsoon mecca of fiery scorn.

Inside this gargantuan vacuum,

do we not exist as an accident of colliding stardust,

-Or is our frozen rigor mortis unyielding in its awe and opus, 

From afar, does it watch us writhe,

Like the trillion-eyed arachnid weaving its web of time,

Animated by prayers from the voices of billions

Or does it scurry through space, only to leave us behind
And wondering, what makes that spider divine.