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I’ve strung these webs over a thousand times

running back and forth, round and round.

But the wind, the rain, the hands of children

tear them down – swindling, dwindling.

Autumn gossamer threads

forming in the mind

cobwebs in corners

but no spider can be found.

I just wanted the world to see,

this twine of me.

It’s times like this that I wonder why

my art is made only to die.

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