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Boo

Tags: musings

If I had the skills of Shakespeare, I would be Poe's ghost. Given my proclivities for the dark and pale strangers who lurk. But seeing as I have no time for talk, I let my pen squawk. Pounding sand for my fans.  

I play not a fool for those who seek a bed of eggs for their basket. Because my yoke is for those who play by the Ouija, in my mind's abyss. The ossuary of my Bic's and Paper Mates.  

Things that go "boo" or chill my blood's aspic, give me a chilling thrill.        

 

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