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Ominous
Poetry Sunday
Ominous never moved its hand
from around my temples beat
with rhythmic pounding as if
I would be found — hunted
for my lack of devotion
not a prayer uttered from burning
lips would kiss the sting
from my skin, deeper in
the pounding of my heart matching
the rhythm of the words
crammed into my ears
for only a short time before
they’re gone again to return
once my mouth has aged
reappearing as an afterthought
insidious — you’ve dissected this
divided parts until all that’s left
drips through your finger’s tips
holding the wheel steering
my tongue into my teeth
holding up my chin
I see
the clouds are looking ominous.