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There's something strange and tempting
All around me.
I feel you, unrelenting,

Gracing my something from somewhere.

Floating like a figment in the air
And you're so high up, we can't see you there,
But I know that you're somewhere.

My eyes are pinching close
Trying to spy your ghost;
Prove to myself that you're out there.

Like a wind dancing light on my skin,
I feel you at it again,
And at their end is my every hair.


If only you'd hold me closer.
I'd like to know that you really care.

My sweet, strange and unreal rover,
I'm getting older; wearing out all of my over-wear.


There's something strange and tempting
Tugging at me.
Almost begging to be,

To be my something from somewhere.

I'm longing, looking and I'm delighted to seek,
Though I'm still straining to see;
Oh, which form would you ask of me?

You could make yourself up most anywhere.

Your gaze is set and pressing through my being.
Because you're all that I see,
I'm staring into my mirror.

I guess I'm lucky it's to me that you speak,
From your elusive unseen,
Caught in your soft-spun somewhere.
There is something calling to each of us, from some unseen otherworld. My something, or at least the mask I attribute to it, whispers a song of delight, whimsy, and oddly mirrored natures. There are as many modes with which to love as there are reasons for the feeling.
As witches chant and cigarettes burn
I wait, patient, for my turn
I do not want what I have got,
But I sure do have a lot
Witches chant and have their fun
As I bake below the pressing sun

Pebbles and dirt,
Worms and sprouts
I open my mouth
And nothing comes out

While witches pant I've come to learn
That I will die before my turn
Nothing's promised except for stones,
Twisted sticks, and dusted bones
Now witches rest, while I ignite
The wasted pages of my life

Cinders and earth,
Ashes and teeth
It sometimes is better
To simply not speak

Witches gather their things to leave
And now I'm sure I'll become these leaves
What gets said between oak and fern?
If woods could talk would I ever learn?
The witches have gone, tho I have not
What's left of me now, just flesh to rot

So hard to stand
So soft, this seat
I can feel the forest upon me

Eat!

— The End —