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Dry ground and graveyards pale next to the sea’s

verge when uncanny malforms crawl forth each


night and roam. The same infected city’s

haze of lights that drown the stars cannot reach


into that dark, cannot dispel horrors

that have only ire toward our neon-fused


age and benign witcheries. The breakers

mark me as a false witch, how I’ve abused


my gifts for filthy lucre and coinage.

There is no grimoire for sale that’ll let us


command the tide. Coven’s pride. Ghasts that feed

on brine-caked bones know this. You can’t sage smudge


the sea, they guffaw. They name us hubris

and crawl from the surge at the scent of greed.