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Mar 2014
evil homestead with wicked doors creak
a sound developed to make strong weak
incites adrenaline,
a sprint, a leap
fluid unto your place of sleep
nothing to be afraid of, of course.
except for the biting coldness, the source
bed as your safehaven you lay and turn
and with silken walls you let down your guard
eyes drift shut but thoughts sporadic
you dream a dream, a dream of habit

in this dream you have no voice

and where you stay is not your choice.

pushed and moved throughout your lifetime

a little creak; your angry punchline.
by: Todd Standard
Todd R Standard
Written by
Todd R Standard  Connecticut
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