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The wound pricks sometimes,
though the bleeding stopped eventually.
Was she evil? Was she good?
The light blood he never
quite understood in his heavy burning,
him, son of a fever-land.
Now his love is a stemmed river
and dark as coagulated blood.

Bo Bergman, Främlingen

Feline Ill


Desperate, the search to find
Disgust of heart, disgust of mind.
Nothing's lost that wasn't had:
Intoxication lost and mad.

Lingers still the taste and smell,
Lingers like some mocking-spell.
Lack's the name, the missing piece
Nameless, empty urge to sieze.

Deadly silent, desolate scream,
Unforfilled his death-angel dream.
Unshining light, the roaring silence—
Touch of will, a physical cry.

Claws that tear through flesh and mind
Raining through the tears that blind.
Precious drops of ageless wine:
Honour is there? Yours or mine?

Milk'd the dew from a felid-sourc'd stream,
Unforetold now as it would seem.
Unshining light the roaring silence—
Feline ill, a physical cry.

What can ever there be done
When vapours once for breath are gone?
Unreach-directions all the same
And where one stands one can't remain?

Milk'd the dew from a once-sacred stream
Obscur'ly told now as it would seem.
The shadow of a thought forgotten,
Both round and pale-hooked he would find.

Deadly sil'nt, once griffin-wrought scream,
Mare-bedridden, angel-death dream.
Unshining light, the roaring silence—
Felines kill, a physical cry.


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