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"It's like a game," she says in a sing-song voice. "A cruel
Sort of game," she admits with a malicious smile and
Low gurgling laugh.
The pretty monster spins as she invites
Herself to picnic in my favorite garden
Where she can lie in the warm sunny day and eat.
She finishes her lunch, stolen from my fridge, and soon
Begins her exploration of the labyrinth of my thoughts.
Her footsteps move too quickly to follow, though I try,
As she ravages and searches me looking for something
She cannot find.
Lost and wandering to the garden I left,
The once beautiful begonias
Have withered in the hard, dry soil, rotted flowers of
The regal roses now drop unnoticed to the ground,
And too late I realize that she has locked every door
To the mind of my imagination.