Harvest of the webs
 embellished tapestries,
draped with the trinkets
of gracious winter Queens.
May the spiders soon reclaim
  their delicate crafts,
  and inject their violent poisons into my cardinal blood.
  My body a feast
  for those ice-sword fangs.
A funeral shroud of moonstone,
  exquisite veneer
  of sticky lace,
  anchoring down
  over my hollowed limbs.
Bid goodnight this wretched day,
  I am tired,
  and the venom vanquishes with haste.
  This tarnished crux, Death,
  scorn me not,
I wait with earnest for thee. 

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