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Im just a flea
In a sea of enemies
Sleeping on an island
Floating on air
Im afraid
To step outside
So nice
But so prickly
Cover me with silk
Blue like lagoon
With a bit of purple
Green graas
Over the step
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November is not really the month to go there, I said to the the witch. And I do not need your pity, I added, like a fool. By now I should have known that witches have no pity. They feast on pain and misery, old and dusty memories. All the things that should be kept locked and hidden, six feet deep. At least. Never to be touched. Never to be visited. In the deep. There at the the bottom of the lake, is the realm of the drowned man. And you have never been much of a diver, have you? So why go there? Because a witch told you? Yet here you are, sitting at the corner of a smokey bar, drink in your hand, and there at the table in front of you; a dinosaur's bone. The witch put it there for sure. That what witches do.
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Night dies slow, then fast.
The unstoppable sun rises,
Conquering darkness.
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