28 Jul Arachne

In her corner, she spins thick spindles of thread.  

A web slightly above her own head.  

One that she has weaved and woven  

Below her feet is a ditch dug, six feet deep.  

In her corner, Arachne sews anger and solace,  

Boastfulness and rudeness had become her.  

And the stressed woman was transformed  

into an even smaller being.  

Where the fuzziness covered her skin, 

Her arms and legs multiplied, 

Partitioned side by side.  

Arrogant.  

Tyrant.  

Tongue and cheek,  

Silence.  

Sewn.  

Athena sat upon her throne, 

Fiery wall, protected her and her home.  

She stared at the belittling shame  

that Arachne had shown. 

In her, arrogance had shined through, 

Blind to the consequences of which her mouth had vented.  

Her disdain for the gods and her mocking manner,  

Was of the utmost disrespect. 

“You want to spin?! SO SPIN!”  

For your web is cozy, as it is home.  

Fill it with envy, fill it with stone.  

May your words way down every truth you own. 
 

Stephen Hicks had crafted the words that begin: 

“Oh, no you won’t run from me,” Athena shouted.  

“I will make sure that you,  

your children,  

and your children’s children suffer.” 

“Now you will be able to weave all day long,” Athena said proudly.  

“But from now on, no one will care about your talents.  

In fact, your delicate woven webs  

will be destroyed when people see them.”  

And so it is.