Poem: That Old Bad Nocturne Is Back in Mind

That Old Bad Nocturne Is Back in Mind

It still that flash of the sharpest
midnight tooth
who comes to pierce through,

takes on the same shape,
with them littlest paws,

but not any better to know,
not any different now
in this kind of dreaming,
the one that smells of wet fur,

not the sweating of beasts
or the breath heavy lurkers
who are not there,
even when heard.

It is still coming again,
isn't it.  Not enough passed time
for it to allow stiller blood
than what churns now.

The room is cold and dark.

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