Into the den where tigers and men, respectfully fear to enter. Follow to see, to look for the key, but never a door to December. But what you may say, to whom and what may, this key or this door belong to? Inside a den, where tigers and men, respectfully fear to wander, there lies a small box, with keys and no locks, and many small scratches to ponder.
A delicate box, one ventures to say, a work matching to any tone. But what lies inside, oh what does it hide, such scarring may speak of unknown. Protecting the box, to ticking of clocks, a great spider weaves in her web. She rules upon high, as high as the sky, and all males shall know her and dread.
A belly of red and a body of black, she waits patiently for a new toy. As each little shadow stumbles on by, she whispers, “Come here little boy.†She guards her box viciously well; if she slips it may be an end. For inside that box is a shattered image, a mirror too broken to mend.
The story ends in a darkened dwelling where a monster lays in waiting. She weaves her thread and buries her dead and no man survives her mating. Inside that box she guards so well, a softer side resides. She waits for the next face to come along, and summon the crimson tides. Though she believes there’s never an end, she doesn’t really see, that inside that box there’s a little elf with nothing to do but be. It sits on a bottle of peppy glue, sorting out the pieces, for one day soon it’ll mend them together and smooth out all the creases. Not all marks will fade away, but just enough will do, but can the spider loose her fear? The question is, could you?
