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  • Ollie Horsfall

She



She could call you,

From a phone in heaven.

Softly spoken, breathing low.

Whispering of what might have been

The Grimming’s light entreats the tone

Of the bells in dreaded silence’ moan.

She might ring you, and tell you when

You might expect, bereft, to see her again.

She may even tease at the exact place,

Her face, her face; such a doom’ed grace.

She might send shiver in air, to creep slowly

In Holy trivialities that she might share.

In the window of memory’s faded light,

She might trample the heart,

Blood mustered from sight.

She might smile as vile tongue speaks soft

Aloft, aloft, for her words are oft’ the weapons,

The swords of the quaffed, and topped

With venomous gilding. Like lightning;

Stopping the heart from beating.

Let her hear your darkened frown,

Down dreamless sleep she might invade;

Her gently inching touch parades

In Arachnid webs and stench of corpse

Her entire existence, for mind; it warps

Her final whim, a quick goodbye;

Of hunted trauma and mysterious lie.

Your only hope, to try and hide

A wistful wight may deride

This fingerless wretch

Don’t let her fetch

Or let her snatch

Your soul, your soul,

That she’ll catch.

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