night terror
it is very quiet it is nearly
four a m
all i hear is the movement of air that
of marketa's breath that of the furnace's forced
air and
my own breath i woke to a chill
of my own doing my night
gown and sheets
twisted soaked through woke without sense
of self unsure of who or even
what i am not
sure of i at all only sure of a void that is
vast and black and infinite
and godless
Poetry by one trick pony
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Written on 2019-02-18 at 11:10
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