Crouching as it does on church steeples or
against facades frightful garrulous darting
We are the pleading for protection from the unleashing
of our own run to hell
We retrogress and from every bottomless pore
oozes sweat like myrrh fankincense gold
The twilight of evening calls for a candle
it flickers alluring like a pyre
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Spirits 19
A poem by Silke Andrea Schuemmer