Drip

Within the shadows I see the blood does flow, running down across those old and rotten bones.

Falling, flowing I listen joyously to that drip, drip, drip the blood does move in those oh so steady streams, visceral rivers of life, all the horror that comes of it.

Streaming down the rotten bones, of one I hated long ago, it pools and shudders and begins again, that thing I hate sadly, or it would it be gladly? Never truly dead.

With in the shadows I see the blood does flow, running down across the bones, the rotting living bones of that thing I hated so long ago.

With in the shadows, in time with that blackened heart, I hear it clearly, that blood that flows and falls, and I love it so.

That drip, drip, drip, for now, and forever more.

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