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The Unsigned Writer


Poetry By, J. M. Lilin

Its clutches are sharp.

The claws dipped in dark forces.

Enveloping, yet, somehow charming.

Matted hair and wild eyes.

Torn by the sticky, striking heat.

He’s gasping for air that isn’t there.

He’s screaming for someone that will not come.

Voices of doubt are what reply, and he’s left to cry.

He cannot breathe and he cannot sleep.

For a nightmare has him in a grip.

Thank you for reading this writing by J. M. Lilin on, The Unsigned Writer. If you’re enjoying this site, leave a like, and subscribe for more!

Also Check Out J. M. Lilin’s Photography At, The Crystalline Mirage.

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