Catatonic whispers said on the bed of death, how the pretty kids lie on their feet, symptoms of a withering hand, upheld not without, a fornicated system, a mirror showing the true face of your insanity, a mirror that’s more like a window, an opening, a hole, somewhere to venture, a perfect place…
My Withered Hand – Unhinged Poem
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Twisted Roads - Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks 
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