Chris G. Vaillancourt
Whispers In A Dreary Place
Damp drilling spiders
and fulfilling their mission.
We are breeze skinned now
and so we prance
in malignant abandon.
Calling to trees...
fall on me and
Doors slamming shut and furious skins
are demanding retribution.
Sighing to self
it's all lemonade
gone stale now.
Jesus. Sweet merciful Jesus,
what sharply stoned road
am I walking upon?
There are too many shivers of dread.
Too many falling trees
and skinning of knees.
' Be quiet.
Remember who I am.'
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