Spawning, Muted Goliath Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

If fate,
Or some omnipotent figure,
Would permit me to morph into a loathsome creature,
I would assume the Tarantula.

Its eight bewhiskered legs stretch out,
Assuming bridges, of which no one could ever cross.
And have you seen the claws, at the end of its limbs,
As if pacifying the savage turmoil inside a black, arachnian heart.

How I pace the woods, and coil wounds
Would not be of any concern to you,
For I wander alone, along with the rustling foliage
Across the cedars, past the aurora, sleeping like a blunted bone.

How calmly I remain, in the decadence
Of all the animals near extinction, extinguished by the errs of man
Will never shake what staunch body and gossamer bosom I have
I prey not upon frailty, only on those who are devoted to my blarney.

Look at my carapace, have you seen the dawn today?
It is tangerine, much like my skin, a blend of orange and black
Do I strike fear? No, I move in such aeration that you will never hear,
For I do not bellow when I traipse, I stride crystal clear.

I have such darling fangs, and upon the nuisance,
I bite only to break skin, and not to intersperse it with noxious fluids
So when the liquid night and I are one, the arachnia's heart fulminates
Like the moon, as if bombarded with such arrogant virility.

My eyes, do they daze you?
I have eight eyes that mimic the Sun, and cry like the Moon
When you are carried like a dead body by the Mediterranean monsoon,
I would gladly carry you among my supple carapace ebbing with harpoons.

Have you heard of my heralded, regal and erudite blood?
The kind of blood that supplies life, but brings a subtle demise
Upon a bite, relinquished, inspired by such abomination
Which scorches you, an incineration, you are but an ashen body.

I am studded with urticating hair, that serves as barricades
Not from trauma, not from contusion,
But from phobias and convolution in dreaded situations,
None have pierced my daring veil and gargantuan position.

Have you seen my stance when I am about to stifle?
The silent rifle in my two, front legs propped up in the sky,
That tower over unfortunate foolish entities,
I am the enigma, you are but a spec of dust.

I do not sleep in my integument, I shed it
Much like a reptile, but only to flourish once again
Yes, my moulting skin, if you ever see it,
It brings so much beauty, resembling the Sun unraveled in the twilight.

Yet, this only happens in the lucidity
Of my far-fetched fantasies.
I wince whilst my grievances speak like a foreign tongue.
What language does an Arachnid speak? I am clueless.

Does it hiss, does it prattle like a snake?
Or does it wheeze like a lung as if tender with sand?
Perfection, such tedious work inside the cobwebs.
When I reach the age of decline, I would soon ebb.

I gazed upon a mirror, feigning an inaudible dissonance,
Inconspicuous as a Tarantula, in front of a disillusioned surface.
At the eager mere sight of this visage in the mirror,
Unsheathed like a pair of Tarantula's fangs, I grimace.