Once things sink it, the feelings slowly crawling around my heart, on my arm is horrid, like a slithering snake, tightening it's hold over me a little bit at a time. Patiently waiting until I can no longer feel, savoring in the anticipation and the taste of it's prey. I have become prey to my own self.
The clouds hovering are ominous for more than just Poe's poems.
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