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38 lines
874 B
Plaintext
38 lines
874 B
Plaintext
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Poetry by DERELICT
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Vampiric Feast
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Death beckons its voice in the cold night air
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I listen, I listen; you do not hear
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to carry the weight is a burden to bear
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but you look into the night- unaware
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I strike, I strike; plunge fangs into your neck
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drain you of blood then leave you weak
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lying on the ground, willpower shall break
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I run home, run home- unaware
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Different Thinking
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A slice of bread rests on a plate
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still, yet ging slowly
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eventually itself molding-
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a new fresh idea from old yeast and flour-
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thrive in an obscure environment
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The one at home passes by the bread,
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now green in fungal ecstasy-
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distrusting, disgusted at its sight-
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belief of bread as harmful grows-
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the slice is pitched away-
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a garbage bag is tied
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Yet, the mold still thrives upon
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the bread, now resting in a landfill...
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mold cultures itself again
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on another slice of untouched bread
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