by Caustic Casey

THERE's a fawn on my stoop,
you see, lying there on the seventh
step of 13, waiting for me.

She sees me through the cracks in her lids,
pretends to snooze, wishes for me
to pass, but oh no!, I shan't!
For as soon as I alight on the seventh
(ever so lightly; a lubber I am not),
the horrid, emaciated (yet strong!) limb (arm?)
will slink from the midst of her torso,
from the frost of her underbelly,
grab me and pull me
down to eversleep

And I will scream and scream to no avail!

Here I stand.
How long.
How very long.

The winter chill bites.
Night grows near.
A heavy fatigue envelopes.
There's a fawn on my stoop,
you see.

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