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Slippery trees and blue blooded moss
A casket of creeers that hold the thick dew in their palms
Bathed in the dim light of the bloodshot moon
How I see this, doesn't matter.
The talons of darkness have engulfed the room
Loose papers tearing away with the wind
Red molten plastic trickling along the moss
A layer of blood on the black buck sleeping soundly
Not a wince, not a twitch
Barely a breath if not steady.
The paper heavy and covered in dew
Falls silently on the transluscent red
That divides the blue into stars
Covers the steady rise and fall
Until everything stops, slowly down
But the ooze from the little pores
Not dead, just not living
Non living like the plastic
And the little doll with the crooked, carved smile.