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Dread

What I dread is the knife behind my back
And the way I grip it, with knuckles pale,
Waiting for the perfect time to attack
Considering no other tide or tack,
And cringing through a gossamer veil.

Half reveling in the anticipation,
Half dreading the time so doomed to fall.
What a dark and strange sensation
This blend of horror and elation,
This puzzle of love and murderous gall.
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6/12/2021 4:13:53 PM # 1.0.0.621