Lost Poetry Part 5

My time is running out,
far into the rabbit hole I to
to find a cured for the Itch.
The feeling I get from you is
agitated
fidgety and obtuse
like the little marks
of a really bad sunburn.
Please send the locusts away
for there will be no feast tonight.
Everyone is either dead or dying
and there is not enough space in the ground
or in the sky.
The stars splutter and fizzle and make up words of their own creation
to ease the parting of their deaths.

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Lost Poetry Part 5

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