…The Attic (II) Spider, spider…

The smell of something like roses
A trace of light through the glass

I fear the world has already ended
I’m hiding away, waiting for it to pass

Has it really been a year already?
Honestly, where does the time go

Can’t argue with the vintage really
Sourced somewhere only I know

White dress — spider silk
Made in Alta Rica

Eight paths, warm milk
But don’t address the speaker

Blue eyes, desert skies
Hopping mad, need a ride

Scattershot and bloodied
For the lines I can’t decide

Spider, spider on the wall
Please don’t linger near me

And though I say nothing at all
It scares me that you hear me


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