The countless entangling dead webs.
Of the crawling clicking dead spiders.
The rustling of the dead leaves.
On the dead trees of the dead forest.
In the dead of the dead night.
Under the dead sky.
Where the dead sun shines.
Walks the man alive
Who's but dead inside
YOU ARE READING
The Night Loom
PoetryThe countless threads of the melancholy weaved together by the shaking hands on this loom of sorrow will soon form the fabric of my grief that I have for so long kept inside
