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Opinions, poems & Short-short Stories of Fictional Shite.

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4:30am
herdinator

the coffee's warm

this early morn

not a sound

a whimper

from the homeless hound

nor a distant siren

even in the night

I see shadows

from the dimmed street light

a smoked yellow hew

that lingers above the tar

yet

my gothic angel

alseep

lost in her dreams

in the arms of her mistress

my quilt

scented with their sex

this morning night

so quiet.


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