Soul Snatcher

The soul-snatcher glared at me from the dusty street corner with fiery orange eyes, his hands cupped over his mouth because of the early morning cold.

I had been out late that night, and I was returning home a little tipsy.

“Hello there,” he said. “Looking for your fix?”

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Silver Moon (a poem)

See the silver moon through the trees,

but don’t open the gates that lead to the dark forest.

I forget what the outside’s like;

in the twilight, hear the groans of the dying.

They claw at the gates, fingernails breaking.

They are not supernatural or beasts or animal-men,

they are just the unfortunates.

In this commune, this aged mansion of the lucky ones,

we pray for the outside.