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​We do not speak of it
for fear we will go insane,
but we both know what we saw …
that night.
I have chills thinking of it
because I recall the cold;
our breath visible,
the spider web brush
on my face.
I remember
the absolute darkness
that followed.
When wishing to see
again, the clouds
puffing out from our
gaping, gasping mouths.
The specter was there,
and not, pulsing, amber.
I still have the scars
where your fingernails bit.
I could taste my blood
in the air.
Skewered by a peregrine gaze,
my ears ceased to function,
and all I could hear/feel
was the anvil of my chest
being hammered furiously.
When the banshee screamed,
and you crumpled to the floor,
and I am not proud of this,
but I ran.
Which is another reason
we no longer speak of this.

M. Zane McClellan

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