They
stand in line
waiting
for me
Hoping
I'll pick them
out of
the crowd.
And I
do.
I do.
Again
and again.
The
same face.
The
same place.
They
are the waking
dead,
and I live inside
their
rotting flesh.
Happy
for their
gloss-eyed
attention.
Their
drool is gold
to me.
The blood from
their
eyes an
intoxicating
spirit.
When
one ambles away,
dripping
flesh in my wake,
I
point, and another raises
its
bruised and wanting
eyes;
ready to engulf
what's
left of me.
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