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M i l l a v a n d e r H a v e
B l a c k s p i d e r m o a n
They just die right
upon the wall, as if
overtaken by stillness
or leave their skin
by my door, a gossamer
sign of how to hold on.
I know they are everywhere
these black spirits of wood
and stone, manifestations
of what is not kin. It's them
that bind the stars together
and them that know the
fine lore of waiting
until thunder sleeps.
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