Where All Things Living

Everything seems to go
wrong in this place; the blackness
is escalating. I can't explain

where the ink is coming from.

As a ghost in its self-weaved web,
whose emptiness is trapped, whose
vacuous nature is spreading, I am

beginning to be here less and less.

I am afraid to go to sleep where
all things living fall through cracks
in uneven, silvered threads.

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