torrents

call back the wind.

inhaling Her gusts to

torrent inside me.

the swirls of wild,

Her blowing, welcome

within this hollow space.

rattling my walls

and whistling throughout,

Her squalls of fury

would be better

than this room of stale air.

as when Her gales rest

to a calm current in waft,

the breath,

my breath,

can begin again.

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the spider

crafting a web,

spun to cover truth,

from fence post to tree branch,

it veils what’s behind

to the passerbys.

silky mist laid upon the backdrop

collecting diamond dew drops,

sparkling in such distraction.

it is a velvet curtain

to what lies occluded.

yet, the spider still sees

what he is trying to cloak.

the candor, now in hiding,

can never be camouflaged

to the spinster.

he cannot spin a web

from start to finish

slippery enough

to forget his own truth.