Strum that old sad song.
You know it so well.
The one that barters
with the smoking barrel.
Hum that lonesome tune.
You know it so very well.
The pigment of your skin
is no longer pink
and you have given up
on ever finding sunrise again.
Pick up the howling at the moon.
You know that exact pitch.
The cold blue light
suits you from the shadows
like a trapped animal
waiting for the pack to arrive.
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