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Chasing the Bloodcurdling.

Screams slice
right through the walls,
floors, ceiling,
attacking
on all fronts
at once, violently

jarring her from
her dream, back
to cold, hard reality,
abandoning
her, leaving her to fend
for herself in the crossfire
of throats
and tongues,

violent verbal strikes
to the eardrums, soundtrack
to the waking hell
in her head, sparking
morbid

recollections
of her youth, beginnings
amputated
of their ends,

the severed:
hidden.

Gone is the comfort
of not knowing
what she does

not know, the bliss
of being blind
to her own
ignorance,

now she must
put the shovel
to the foot
of the grave,

chasing
the bloodcurdling,
throats ripped raw,

plowing on
towards rupturing.

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