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As bricks and stones decay
we are in the graveyard and
the cellar and the catacomb
without for a moment stepping
from the cold city daylight.

As far as banality surrounds —
and so, too, does humanity hem
and crowd and move around us —
so are we held tightly in the
wispy strong threads, the Uncanny.

The Thrice Great and His
retinue of ghosts never leave
their watch over this living
place where homes and offices
and cafés are the same as tombs.

We’re the ghouls in the
graveyard skulking in crypts.
When we know our nature, then
life abounds and rot becomes
a seasoning of glorious truth.

Do not, therefore, scorn the
broken, fallen, foetid, dead;
we are no better than bone-dust
— but bone-dust is everything.
Gross and subtle, both Uncanny.