like a self loathing
tornado sweeping
away all hope like a trailer
park memory. There is one
cellar I can run to if I
hear the siren. But if she calls out too late I
have to hold on to the thread. Hanging. Pleading it to pass.
Winds of a crypt long closed, reopened
to unleash the harsher tempest, seducing
me to fly , but holding the
thread, hanging on by one claw.
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