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Post by Count Orlok on Sept 21, 2010 10:17:47 GMT
Outside in the dark forest, the wind blows cold, Whipping frightened peasants' faces, making knuckles ache, The oppressive dark hangs like a heavy blanket overhead. Wolves run out there among the trees, leafless and gaunt, Seeking their prey among creatures great and small. They roam between the glittering frozen branches, Hungry for blood and flesh, lusting for the kill. The only barrier between my terrified soul and the wind And the ravening wolves are the poor walls of my home, Fragile walls, just a few inches of wood, glass and paint. The inside walls of my room seem to be steeped in terror, My heartbeats seem to be visible on the very walls In the flicker of the hearth's last warm embers. And so I shiver in my warm bed, unable to sleep, For fear of my impending evisceration by the wolves, By the wolves from deepest Hell, sent by cruel Satan. So I cower behind my thin walls and the wolves howl for me. Attachments:
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Post by Edna Sweetlove on Sept 21, 2010 10:59:19 GMT
I just shat myself in terror.
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