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| >> Static Item >> Poetry >> Gothic >> ID #1379398 |
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Pressed Against Blackness
Lurching and swerving, I careen through my days. The sweat burns my eyes, the blood my soul. Leering and beckoning, the demons descend- Their claws raking my body, the foul breath on my wounds; Like leeches gorging on the scarlet fount. Cornered, pressed against the blackness; How much longer do I withstand their bestiality?
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