ManeaterShe gestured, “Come.”
I did so quickly.
Time is not an old man's friend.
It grinds and doesn't often offer
Someone lovely, someone living,
Gazing up from my own bed,
Appearing to be cherishing
The thought that she'd devour me.
I saw no reason to hang back,
No reason to not be consumed.
There are less pleasant ways to die,
And, worse, I thought, if I don't come,
She'll leave to look for someone else.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2018-06-01 at 01:37
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