A book of verses, opened freshly
wherein lies raw, wild creatures,
their cryptic artistry of hunting
for the heart. With sharp, white
teeth, knife-edged claws, an appetite
for living- do words know hunger?
Can they wound their favorite prey?
And there it is lying at the bottom
of the ink-black pit, fallen for
the baited snare, the poet's trap,
a morsel of discernment.
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