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Oct 2014
crept up on me
in the beginning,
in a slithering,
sordid sort
of way.
the opening,
the closing doors kept
and left me
porous woodwork,
ashen, decrepit;
the walls that wept
dust mites
in the absence of
a keeper,
in the absence
of light.

What a wicked way,
what a thing to say

to a skeleton in his grave,
rattling sporadically,
stench of love decayed.

Gracefully laid down,
head full of gray clouds,
reserving respect
for all those dead sounds,
keeping kindness
for my pallid hounds.
Shashank Virkud
Written by
Shashank Virkud  Tallahassee, FL
(Tallahassee, FL)   
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