The Boding

    T  h
      e 
        B
          o
            d
           ing
         Rattling
       with quivers
     of   chill   the 
    snake of my breath 
   slithers free. Hands
     slice  downwards
     into the base of
        my pockets.
         Shoulders
          hunch, neck 
           scrunched 
            I hunker on
              through Winter’s                 lucent bones,
                carrying the weight         of unease within my
                  constricting skin. Unable to contradict my own
                   oviparous nature I incubate        anxiety and 
                          doubt.  I  take            refuge from 
                                                    a cavernous
                                                   wasteland 
                                                  existence
                                                 hiding 
                                                deep in  
                                               the coil
                                               of your 
                                                mind.
                            The               forked 
                           nature            of your         
                           undulating      thoughts 
                            heats  the  cold of my
                              blood and feeds my

                                                            hunger!

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