Living doesn’t have to be 1918
to make a dark poet.
It happens gradually
as when a fussy child falls asleep.
you think it will never happen
and you wonder what people out there
are doing that it should ever get to that point.
Then seconds turn the midnight air
into a talented lullaby,
the kind that charms you dead to the world.
Now you’re caught,
preyed upon by all that is forbidding, doomy, deep.
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