They should have been
a horde of eyeless cockroaches,
scavenging batshit on
the floors of sunless caves.
The sleeper awakened
to wail beneath a waning moon,
filagrees the stars with doom.
To be or not to be
a witch
was never a question,
with another answer,
such is outrageous fortune.
Thus I wake to dream,
and sleep to wake,
eyes flashing and
hair afloat.
Having opened the
arteries to loose this
river of blood, there is
No Turning back.
That wail is now a howl.
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