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Deadbeat pulse, indiscriminately willed,

why did you run, my friend?

Ceaseless fear, indeterminately fed,

digest the hazardous dose.

Ghostly grove, greet the fleeing feet,

run child run! — through the enveloping dark,

past willows’ weeps and whispers,

before they swallow your panicked heart.

Beware the monster, what’s that noise?

Keep fleeing! Don’t breathe so loud!

Nothing, nothing. Where is the end?

Look! There’s the red oak tree — no, same tree…

Thumping thoughts, peace beyond reach,

lost between your heavy fear and feet,

Ominous contagion befalls the mind.

Where’s the monster? Where’s my enemy!

Run child run! — before you are taken,

past the fog’s wispy whirly fingers,

else you die, stifled breathless,

swallowed whole by your stupid madness.

I’m not escaping! — the monster is tireless,

I have to find the antidote! The fight is endless.

Lake frozen and still… step, step — crack, stop!

Oh child, don’t look down, else it’ll finally catch you.

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I am nothing more than a passing ghost through the dream you call life.


“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”

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