A riddle–


I am a being spun from silk,
softer than a cape made of tulle,
the mortal wingspan of gossamer wings–
I am the whisper-soft web of lies,
spun by predatoiral hands,
kissed with a spray of poison.
My purpose is to idly stand by,
strung up high, made a tool
to your derision.
I am to be silent; gleaming with dew,
forever the weapon of your choice–

What am I?

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