fibres

sitting around wearing
garments of black
like so many nights
have woven their way
into thread
and become a cloak
to ensconce the unwary
shot with silver
like moonlight
and dust from the stars
and purples and reds
waves of some kind of 
aurora peculiaris
and greens like a 
seaweed arm
dragging you down
into places
where night never touches
and the day isn’t known

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