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Monday, 30 April 2012 02:00

Hunted

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His ghost settles
smothers like a fog
cuts with pin pricks and broken edges
A sharp punctures the surface
letting blood
my pleas drip to the floor
Your answers strike
dissolve deeper
The wrenching
The sickness inside
I am without weight with you
wringing my hands
suffocating
One, two
then a torrent
then weeping
I ask you for a hollow hand
I'm asking for a spook
I am a mist
dripping blood for your answers
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