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by Charles Carreon

Doing battle
with you a thousand times ...
Damnable maiden,
Your excuse is youth,
But the bitterness remains.
No quarter ever given
in this game ...
True bloodsport
if there ever was
such a thing ...
After love,
The stalking,
The hunting,
The heart-destroying,
The burning,
The feast.
To compare with
Your eyes,
Wolves on a winter
Night would seem warm.
Now darkness falls
And I perceive
A grimmer silhouette,
A trick of light,
A shadow here,
But no there's something yet,
An intimation,
Dim and drear
Of purpose strangely set,
A chill, a subtle
Taste of fear
That good minds
Will forget.
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