THE CHILL OF TIME
There is the slightest chill, in the night air
And my skin tingles, as I sit and do care
Over matters reported by powers that be
Of how things will come unbidden to me
How in the dead of stillest night, it comes
Catches me fast by the hair, as I try to run
In all directions, in a desperate bid for time
But my scattered wits betray, me, and mine.
Trish 2019
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