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. . . .