These things
These things bloom like moss on the belly of stone. Soft, damp, copious--stolen from light.
These things show themselves in spaces given last rites. On the faces of terminally lonely.
These things come forth at moonshine. When tides have pulled in.
These things follow the north star, searching for a way home. A way back to you.
These things show themselves in spaces given last rites. On the faces of terminally lonely.
These things come forth at moonshine. When tides have pulled in.
These things follow the north star, searching for a way home. A way back to you.
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