Gossamer-silk strands wove into artwork, 
Hung on bramble, glistening with morning dew, 
Frail as a whisper, destroyed by one rainfall 
And the artist must start his creation anew.

But don't be fooled by its delicacy! 
The web holds a license to kill 
Its grip of death with embrace you 
And its Monster, concealed, lurks in shadows, so still. 

So when dancing, nonchalant, through the ai...

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