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Torment
November 1, 2011
he succumbs to sleep,
done is the deed,
misfortune may lead.
Rolling coats of perspiration,
the air breathes deeply,
whisper trees softly,
he knows this place,
feet move forward as his mind trudges back,
she finds him, he can not look away,
mouth open in a silent scream.
The vile eye rotates
to glare hatred
And it is his turn to scream.
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