Before the serpent and no blood to spill out,
come muted hurricanes of hesitation and screaming doubt.
 
The demons siege unfed upon a tryst,
deserving of enemies that cease to exist.
 
In fire born pits of bloody hues,
battles are fought in burning shoes.
 
Death becomes of the innocent smiles,
lost within but twisted miles.
 
To nowhere but this taunted space,
with nothing but time on my hands in this hellish place.

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Chris Geran
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