On nights when the moon refuses to shine,
When hopeful dreams have all drifted away,
This is the time when the long shadows come,
When the skull-backed spiders are eager to play.
It’s the thick, choking darkness that grows them,
Their black frames pulled from deep, murky depths,
A single white spot to mark their cold flesh,
The marred heralds, glowing beacons of death.
Venture no closer than a cubit’s length,
Steer your path a wide berth from their stance,
Lest you catch a glimpse of their spot’s true shape,
Image clear at the start of their dance.
Listen close as we whisper our warnings,
Heed the words we lay bare at your feet.
Don’t tread near to catch sight of our skulls,
You’ll regret most the moment we meet.