Ruins of Renaissance

Legs so spider like
that one must consider the presence of spiders
creep slowly forward.
Inch by hesitant inch
they reach out,
the feel for,
yearn for,
something giving and warm.
Inch by tormenting inch
they roam a dark and desolate landscape,
one leg in front of another,
in front of another,
feeling nothing but cold ground.

A minute eternity passes.
Generations of feelers come and go.

Their movements slow,
each reach echoing something similar
to despondence,
each feel tremoring the notes of despair.
The feelers pause
in a contemplation of invited failure,
but one,
one alone pushes on,
one somehow,
perhaps by evolution,
does not fear oblivion.

Another small age passes,
the one brave leg is nearing its natural end,
yet still it does not yield
to the clawing nothinginess.
One ancient leg,
built to feel,
in its last trembling movement
the ground gives.
The feeler basks in its warmth,
and curls around itself,
knowing, by feeling,
that it has won,
that all is right,
and it sleeps
a sleep of eternal contentment
on this giving, warming place.