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Interveiw With Winter

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He sulks in the sunlight,
and breathes smoke in my face.
Metal sticks to his skin,
so I told him to eat
with his hands.

His voice is not pleasant.
High and wailing he runs
it through my tree like a
fine toothed comb, it leaves the
branches bare.

He told me once he killed
someone with his bare hands.
“It was an accident”
he admitted softly.
I doubt it.





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