1981 and the poet writes this little bit of science fiction atmosphere.
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we pray to them. they prey on us.
they slither back into shadows
at our approach, the better to seize us
unaware to be scrutinized at their leisure.
we give them great pleasure...
we of soft flesh and chewy tendons,
our bones crackling so satisfyingly.
we tempt them. they feed on us.
and we never see them come or go.
we just know that they are out there. waiting.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.