The Rapture of the Rodent
My muse, a little demon rat
with fur as soft as moon beams
She stares at me when night arrives
and haunts me in my daydreams
When still surrounds and dark descends
her star-lined ears appear to gleam
Her tiny nails that scrape my skin
grow unending then, or so it seems
She lays, pressed, to solemn bars
her being drenched in heavy cream
A milk that dulls my sharpest thoughts
variations on a gray theme
This poem is about:
Me
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