Too Pressed Bed

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The Bed has attained my shape,

and gained her own mortality.

She has earned her own muffled pleas

for my return to reality.

No longer can the Bed sleep

to escape my insanity,

because I weigh her down,

with the rest of humanity.

The Bed turns cold

because its warmth is worn on me.

Her sinews strained,

from my selfish immobility.

Her laments drowned out

by cowardly cheers,

chanting,

“I’ll surely make this my year”.

 

Even the bed tires of my company.

Wicked Falls

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Wicked, wicked, little man

your fingers creep on tortured skin,

Tracing the scars of the damned

with no regard for innocence.

Wicked, wicked, little man

wilting flowers in full bloom,

Terrorizing the nights with silver daggers,

While howling at the moon.

Wicked, wicked, little man

-you’ve come too soon-

Departing from your midnight scowl

with spells of scorched tears.

Wicked, wicked, little man –

creeping. crawling. demolishing,

Diana’s sheltered Moon.

Hunting the huntress

as she descends upon the Earth

to kiss her children’s wounds.

Wicked, wicked, little man

You forget the power of the new moon.

The cloudless nights put up a fight

to forsake your muculent drool.