A sketch upon the cold grey slate,
A creature some might call ingrate.

It’s Puke, the spider, inked in white,
A work of art that’s veiled in light.

With legs that sprawl in twisted glee,
As if to mock reality.

The sun declines to grant its grace,
As darkness fills the empty space.

A child’s laugh, a mother’s shriek,
A symbol of the strong and weak.

Yet Puke just sits, forever still,
Evidence of absent will.

No rain to wash the ink away,
No dawn to bring a brighter day.

Invisible to passing crowd,
Its silence speaks bizarrely loud.

A transient truth on concrete floor,
A question mark, and nothing more.

Thus Puke resides, a fleeting spell,
On pathways leading close to Hell.

An asphalt canvas, bleak and grand,
Where spiders drawn by unseen hand.