Of spiders and centipedes

Spiders are sophisticated.
They weave, carefully,
and watch, and wait.
Scrupulous, spinners of a home
and saviors of pigs.
They thread their livelihood
to a rhythm
neither frantic nor frenzied,
but persistent and steady.
And they die
with grace:
a tranquil resignation
to an unprotested fate,
a silken legacy
to leave behind.

Centipedes are so dumb.
Seriously.
A mindless, writhing,
mess of legs.
They know only one trajectory:
Go.
Never stopping,
not even to ask for directions.
Their unidirectional spasms,
the only way to tell
their head from their butt.
They die
in a fit of giggles.
Like some demented clown
on laughing gas.
Their disembodied legs,
convulsing in an asynchronous chorus of nasty.
Their final trick,
as desperate and silly
as their ephemeral existence.