Net Work (Poetry)

She sits there at the hub,
pulling strings,
awaits her daily grub —
meals on wings,
her dainty webwork hung
with sucked-dry skeletons
like trophies cruelly won —
tragic things.

She sits before the screen,
spinning lies
her flirty chat room scheme
hooking guys
so wonderously naive
(hearts worn on virtual sleeves)
they’re dying to believe
Love’s the prize.

But nothing’s what it seems,
chaps beware —
sun-dappled orchard dreams
hide a snare
to tangle men like flies,
the trap before their eyes
unseen beneath blue skies —
So unfair.