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by Anna Ruiz

how sad a vile creature
of the long lonely night
you are,
a pestilence of death
you seek rivers of blood
in your desolation the
weight of human despair
heavy on your back,
and so you fly like a bat
out of hell,
you drown your sorrow
in dying wives as you
bleed them a little at time,
return for more
unafraid of the crucifix over their
still-beating heart, there is no mirror to set
you free
there is no coffin to take you home.

Copyright © 2008 by Anna Ruiz

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