The Lacemaker.

An overabundance of beauty, in time,
Diverts us, from colder aspirations
Of invisible social ritual. Just consider
 
The intricacies of a drawing room,
Arrayed in oriental rugs, and porcelain;
With dazzling, geometric patterns
 
Always changing in passages of light.
But what desires linger, in depths,
Where light itself cannot penetrate?
 
As pine-needles dissolve illumination
By stippled elegance, the arachnid
Remains sightless to our limited eyes;
 
Sheltered, to perform a danse sacrée
We glimpse only the bare traces of,
Passing through in mindless ecstasy.