The wake is like a funeral pyre a howling wolf fighting eating empty stomach famishly starved trying to burn light out from the dark "It is a bliss in the deep" it thinks, this creature, while being and wanting to stay a longer while From the deep it thinks "If I too should surface I would see you up there in a tree, writing a poem no one might ever see" But just if lucky like a destinated leaf on a bare scraped winter's tree the note would fall discretely come swirling down and would be caught instantly agape This would feed the whole underworldly beast
into exist
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