Like a spider;

Drawing in its prey,

By instinct alone,

An innate reaction,

A way to gain sustenance;

To survive.

But the problem comes

When the predator fails its prey,

When the fear of eight spindly legs

Cannot be conquered.

Each one of those tiny cold feet,

As frigid as the fluttering arachnid heart,

Encased beneath a carapace

A durable shell,

Built for protection.

It's a premeditated disaster;

An expert saboteur this creature is,

So clever

It can even deceive itself.

Soon web after web is spun,

Only to hold abandoned dreams,

Tangled in the mess of silky fibers,

Caught—without a hope of escape.

But these webs are not of lies,

They are spun only of twisted truths:

Honest answers given

In a dishonest manner.

But it's all because of arachnophobia.