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Poetry by DERELICT Vampiric Feast Death beckons its voice in the cold night air I listen, I listen; you do not hear to carry the weight is a burden to bear but you look into the night- unaware I strike, I strike; plunge fangs into your neck drain you of blood then leave you weak lying on the ground, willpower shall break I run home, run home- unaware Different Thinking A slice of bread rests on a plate still, yet ging slowly eventually itself molding- a new fresh idea from old yeast and flour- thrive in an obscure environment The one at home passes by the bread, now green in fungal ecstasy- distrusting, disgusted at its sight- belief of bread as harmful grows- the slice is pitched away- a garbage bag is tied Yet, the mold still thrives upon the bread, now resting in a landfill... mold cultures itself again on another slice of untouched bread