Your grip upon the silken cord grows weak
you pluck them something now like zither strings
It must be strange with no employ of wings
to hang between the moon and quiet lake.
Time and times again we're warned of the web
the livid maw that lurks at the wild center
I conclude that what we love we dread
and what we dread we love and long to enter.
I open duty's circle with a kiss
and on the prison of the sky turn key
to show the vistas vast of nothingness
that, after all, our hearts long most to see
and seizing in a spider's dark caress
you apprehend, at last, your fantasy.
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