Carrying her sorrows in silken sac,

unwavering whilst weaving wildly.

Under a sombre sun, or callous cloud,

she spits, and hisses;

feeling jilted.

Centuries since she's 

been hopeful;

eight eyes, wide open, 

filled with wonder.

Mourning every almost happy ending,

crushed as she counts 

one less blessing .

Scarlet letters sealed 

her fate as a spinster,

wrongfully accused 

of eating men for dinner.

Society classified her as 

a sinner,

once jade, emerald, 

but now black widow.

So she spun her salience armed for battle;

no army could have anticipated her arrival.

Adorned in a coat made of her ex-lovers.

Hell hath no fury like the venom inside her.