The Weaver Laments

The crowd looks on.

The weaver scuttles away.

Her tapestries torn, her enthusiasm worn,

Her yarn in disarray.

The mother of spiders, born with a boon.

Today, she looks in contempt at her loom.

Was pride her greatest enemy?

Or was it the attention she received?

Or was it the god's glory grown thin?

Was it the bitter truth that the weaver weaved that made the crowd lose its din?

Was it really a hard pill to swallow?

Was the punishment "deserved" just?

Or was it merely a result of hitting an

Olympian's raw nerve?