Slender limbs still as the spider perches on the long stem. It sways and bows as the wind billows through. The flower is gone.
A butterfly flutters aimless. It floats on the breeze’s breath. (Close; closer.) Bright wings meet sticky web and the spider weeps.
Silk weaves the insect into a cocoon and the spider creeps forward. It is all putrid poison fangs, all suffocating clingy webs. Oh to be a lily; to be beautiful and kind.
But it is a spider—who wants to be a lily.
If only there could be a spiderlily.
(Oh, child, there is.)