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Transitions MAG
Somewhere in the transition between last winter and spring,
 I stopped dreaming.
 And it might've been when I stopped 
 reading,
 around the time that I stopped writing.
 Perhaps when I slept scarcely
 And when I slept, it was sickly
 with dreams of white bats and black wolves,
 eyes bleeding and teeth falling.
 I have dreamt of such terror:
 when my dreams started stalling.

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