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Corvus
November 12, 2009
Your talons sweep the earth
Always searching for my carcass
So you might feast upon my dead flesh
Your cry is that of a banshee
And as I crawl away,
The daggers of betrayal strike your weekend foe
And slit open the body to smell the scent of passion
Gone terribly stale.
© Steve S., Marblehead, MA
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