My Sonnet

I rest upon thy dismal web as you call for dinner to ready. I surrender my all, but you turn your back- Making this virgin soil shake and my knees ever unsteady. My mistress cares not of my misery or my tears that usually crack. She was brought up, as princesses are, to take and share little of none. She grew to be a queen of all, with no change whatsoever, A priss to woman, a siren to men, but to me always the sun. Amazing beauty protects her face and age will live for never. You gaze into an unseeing mirror and view a horrid reflection. Younger than her years, a demon with many faces, Peers back with disgust and love, deep as an infection. Possibly altered, but most often true, in many of all cases. Like me, you old spider queen, take pity on my intentions. Love me right. Love me true, and give me your lasting attention.