The Gossamer Strings Poem by Gert Strydom

In an old dilapidate farmhouse
I saw the gossamer strings
webbed in corners, at windows
shining in a haze of light
and trembling in the slight breeze
with wiggling prey, some with leaves
as some uncertainties expanding
with frail bonds
until the master killing spider
would pounce

and such is life with Big Brother
always watching from behind the scenes
with the web of its control spanning wide,
still widening across the globe
and in the end man is metered down
to being a mere individual
against the big machine,
against a system of control,
from where some act like gods
over fellow human beings.