The Morning Omen

Smooth, gliding glisten of the morn you are
Dew, deathly dew, threatening to remind me of
The storms, that are rolling, always not far
From here, the pressure of an approaching
Fear, churning in the way the curtains churn
Now, a thing coming, rising upwards and opening
Mouth, so black, and patient, knowing how to
Eat, properly, without slip, this body will fit
Perfectly, and slide down inside like hot liquor,
Perhaps wine, the deep kind, the kind that the
Belly rumbles, clenching around to crumble and
Die, I will, quiet with a form that will not spill
A drop, a dollop, I shall be all gone,
The end will go on I sense, for
Far, too long, well into the morning.

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