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weave the blessed singularities
as I read the book of shadows,
when sadnesses besiege us
in the dying of the light,

when you are terrified, late, late at night.
look  into the blackness,
at the heart of second sight,
see yourself mirrored
in the declensions of sight
in your sleeping child’s eyes

rising in this ghost-air,
tinglings on your skin.
let the fullness of the day

watch the witches and the wizards
of the wicca all at play
on the greensward
the oak tree’s all a-flicker,
and the pentangle’s aflame
in this sultry summer night
the crescent moon 
watches the warp and the weft
of our weaving web of time
curves us in this wormhole
rhyme of a closing line.



Walking solo ►


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