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The Other’s

They weave a web of gossamer shrouds
To which we lay in wait
Holding on with trembling hands
We feel those souls: Oh so maligned!

What is it this eight legged thing
A life in debt to secrets and lies
As our fears bespeak our token frowns
A sepulcher moans out our cry!

The patterns are set
For darkness now rises
Those Other’s’ Those things
Are finally awake

Is it hope they bring
This darkness a shroud!

My soul encased in despair
Silken robes wrapped all around

Has this eye of death found its prey?
We wondered? As the first touch. . . .

–Lewis Campbell–