The Web

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Well, it seems as though

We meet again.
Wandering,

Aimlessly, stranded,

Frigid
In a deep wood, surrounded by
Chipmunks and deer and

Butterflies, floating quietly in a

Sea of air.
It seems as if we have

Nothing more to say,
Yet you reach out your hand,

Palms slowly melting, voices containing,

Dreams vanishing before our
Inflamed eyes.
Tomorrow, we preach, tomorrow will be a better

Day, but inside we are too pragmatic for that.
It seems as if our worlds are unraveling,
My fears and your hatreds pink, fleshy, raw.

The sinews of our emotions spread themselves out,

Twisting around our necks, strangling us as we

Fight each other for air.
We’ve grown apart, they say.
Wandering,

Aimlessly, stranded,

Frigid
Among monstrous trees and forbidden fruit.
Our black webs of frustration have become one,
And we wait, struggling.
As the drops of sweat fall towards our feet we hear
The siren song of a stream,
Small and narrow, eloquent in its glorious melodies.
It sits only yards away from us.
So we drink as the black strands of our being
Unroll around us, consuming us.
We drink.
Well,
It seems as though we have met again





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