when left forgotten in the pantry,
the lost jar of honey
collects shadows inside,
and cobwebs outside.
the night is just as viscous,
and threatens to overflow
into my unhappy bedroom,
will the lattice of green vines
clinging to an old dying tree,
turn me invisible in its shelter,
or will the honeyed darkness
swallow me whole as it did,
the unsuspecting moon?
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