July 30, 2009
In turn, thy mind,
is serpentine,
In thought, with its right,
comes movement, slow and steady,
And speed, in place of might,
with venom, slowly pulsing,
Into the skin, you will find,
a vein, and death does come so quick,
and pain, to make them fall, so sick,
and bleed and stare,
your forearm bare,
slowly you drift,
into the black,
the valley of death,
of light, bereft,
and darkness does find you,
and sink, into the neverending blue

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