clean

The skin glued to soles of shoes

A whisper of gnarled white hair in the wind

The fingers wrinkled, washing away the dirt

From the bodies of youth

In a white bath tub, the claws glinted –

The glare of shifting day.

 

She spun the yarn, and it snagged

Like a scab caught, it tore.

The sunbeam of red dribbled

Over the rotting boards,

And a winged creature, short lived,

Flew into the howl.

 

A monster lives in the attic,

They said.

It lives on fear and death,

The cry of the end.

The day was alive.

But the people were not.

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