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Hole
Lulling, gaping aperture on the face of this serene
landscape that ties me to the ground on which we walk.
It flaps its jaws and slacks them wide to draw an invitation
to all that wish to lose themselves within its darkened bowels.
Wheezing rasps that serve to take the freshness from the air,
spits and spats that turn all things rotten with their touch,
a hunger that feels no bottom or hint of fading away;
only muffled by the fog.
