Grey eyes behind a curtain
masked
show me they’ve always
been here—
these muses,
their thoughts a slurry of
simple
things turned awry and
over,
an admittance of vague
ideas presented in dark
rooms,
each under a small moment
severed,
silk webs spun under
the brightest light in the
corner of
those damp rooms
show that light still
leaks over;
like burnt linen seeking
solace in oiled lamps and
soft beeswax candles--
a seal so differential
to a time they’ve always
been there;
Here;
waiting.
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