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Starian

Into the black.

I walk amongst the dark.

That’s sheltering, the dead.

And, I only hear their whispers.

And not the words, they’ve said.

Like the rustling of leaves.

Or a swirl, upon the air.

Malevolence or mischief ?

I know not, nor do I care.

Death sends, pale reminders. 

As

Bony fingers clutch my clothes.

I see, their silent faces.

I feel, the coldness...

Of

staring 

eyes.

Giajl © Jim Love