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Hunt




Hunt

You blister your tongue with thistles
pierce your cheek with boxwood thorns.
My heart is spell-work, labyrinth

scattering desire.

At the bottom of a blasted well
Inside the shell of the last basilisk

the last remnants smolder, marked
by the imprint of my teeth.

I have marked love
And I will sound the horn

 The hunt will find yours
before it claims mine.


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Comments

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
caffienekitty
Nov. 28th, 2012 06:13 am (UTC)
Oh very evocative. Lovely.
ciaranbochna
Nov. 28th, 2012 06:42 am (UTC)
Thanks. The silly things that happen when you are making the bed:P
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )