The morale of a painting

Eight steps and it was immortalized.
Smothered on a lush green beneath the permanent sunset.
With a breathe of silence and one stroke,
This imperfection, somehow, remained.
Flashes of its pain, ended with its eyes.
Retribution, Destruction, Annihilation.
All etched in the eyes expression.

In the Abyss of sleep, his creation woke,
Crawling from its immortality, to its hell.
A pitch-black room could hide the image,
But alas, it exalts the screams and sounds,
Of tearing and severing flesh.

A gasp, with a cold sweat that glossed him,
Greeted his waking moment,
He was alive, It was merely a nightmare.
The relief brought out a new thirst for life.
As he prepared to dump his painting he realised,
The spider was gone,
All that remained was the shape from where it had been.
An extension for his new found thirst for life.