Stiltskin

This secret time,
this stillness of night,
find me in a cloistered glow.
With insanity’s obsession,
I hatch plots.
Given the grim seeds,
a lackey’s direction,
I turn each one over and over,
espying its flaws.
And you,
you my dear,
are none the wiser.
With witches’ Ouija I call you.
Turn, you will,
and come.

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