Counting Webs

If the night weren’t full of shadow
and we aren’t what we see,
Then could we
be drawn out this eclipse?
For what is a shadow
but a lapse
into the beauty we cant hold,
What we deny ourselves to see.

The way we grow
it floods into too much shade,
We can’t run
for these shadows
grow to cover us
and resemble our ruins.
What is rubble to soil?
What is this need to build
as if these cities
were the promise
of pasts forgotten.

A loose thread dangles from the web
hanging high above our minds,
Which narrows to the ease of
ignorance.
We trade our souls
for need to grow.

We are the trap we have set
the silken intricacy of our own divide
and somewhere, sometimes,
we find the remnants
of of our chaos undone.
As a wind it passes
as effortlessly as we now forget,
but where can we hide?

Every height we climb
we will meet our penance
as a moon is mirror to a sun,
we have no path to catharsis.

A mask is shading us,
Whoever we become.
We are no longer of the land,
Nor the sea
that touched our foreheads.
We have been sent back
and all we can do,
will stumble short of enough.

We design our own chaos.
So wise is man.

We exist in beauty stolen
and the brash negligence
of a tempest beyond the mist.

Broken views all that’s left,
Scattered scarce
in the lattice we make.
All along,
Spinning at an untoward momentum.
We are our own inception.

Tread carefully behind the path of man.
Tread light upon the lace of a spider.
Who are we hiding from, if not ourselves?

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