A Spider from a Basic Rhyme

Rhymes are written,

Often spun,

For little meanings.

Just to make a few seconds fun.

At first,

That was what I had learned young.

Years went by,

Spiraling a spider's thread,

Torn from dread.

What meanings matter then?

When words were lost among the dead?

But that is where writing was found again.

The little spider,

My quivering pen,

Searched the grave,

Not wanting life to end.

Little meanings

Made lingering notes

With meanings not

So far from hope.

It was on a dark web the spider thrived,

But thanks to writing

The author's alive.