There it hangs in the old pantiled shed
a small swaddled body on a dusty thread
with the door ajar, it twirls and twists
in a dizzying dance that the breeze enlists
a failed frail moth I first assumed
mid mutation, forever entombed
instead, a spider’s antique wrap – unconsumed
I don't normally attempt rhymes but since Frank's prompt asks for only 7 lines, I did!
PoetryPix 
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