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By Richard Dean

Death came in on millipede legs, silent

Slithered beneath the covers

Worked its way close, dripping poison

Midnight Succubus in my mouth, pretending to sleep

Its intentions are blind - pure avarice

It's choices not its own, turning dreams to twisted landscapes - scorched earth and burnt loves

On waking, departed, save for a single drop of blood

A rose on the coverlet

Another day of make believe


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