These tears in my eyes—
no,
it is the gossamer of evening mist.
They ascend and
wrap wounded stars with fresh spun gauze,
hush along the night like a cicada’s last song.
The land grows tired as it watches
the clash of haze and distant fire.
The lights beg me to look up.
I do.
Spiderflies always
do.
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 10:39 PM UTC
These tears in my eyes—
no,
it is the gossamer of evening mist.
They ascend and
wrap wounded stars with fresh spun gauze,
hush along the night like a cicada’s last song.
The land grows tired as it watches
the clash of haze and distant fire.
The lights beg me to look up.
I do.
Spiderflies always
do.
