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footmarks1I hear footfalls
piti-pata of muddied feet
marking time on you.
I hear gurgles
hunger calls of fiend throats
reaching out for you.
I hear the voice of Night
wafting out its tainted songs
that deepen so your sleep.

And you must sleep, it seems,
till the hand of stealth is deftly drawn
bearing off your very worth?

I hear footfalls still,
silent schemes of creeping hell
out to thwart God’s mind.
I see frantic Hell
fanning out in impish chains
orbiting your soul.
I see Lucifer now
racing against slipping time
to steal, kill, destroy.

And you must shun, perhaps,
the call of Wisdom’s written voice
and sleep your very soul away?

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