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Tendrils
In the lonely dimension of night
I reach out with my mind, tendrils, to grasp you
I reach without time, stepping out of a car to a brand new yesterday
In the sticky present of cobweb eyelids and a shortness of breath I wear as epaulets
Boulders to tendrils in the forge, a trial by fire
But it forgets the lovely spider from which the tendrils are spun
Out of the forge and into the day
The tendrils remain, never undone
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