by Mary E. Lowd
To a butterfly, a spider is
A conniving devil
Spinning demonic webs
Of evil, fatal strands
But to the spider…
The butterfly is
An unattainable angel
Perfect and gorgeous
Floating through the sky
On wings as light
As cotton candy and
As beautiful as stained-glass art
Should they ever meet
It’d surely end
—one way or another—
With a horribly broken heart