The smell hangs on your
soggy cargo pocket-
like the rain that's
drenching your boots.
You try to shake it as
if it's a fly on your foot-
but it only makes you feel
colder.
You press your hand
against the warm clay door-
it vibrates-as if
to say: don't enter-
they're here.
And the moment comes
when you slam into it.
Knees weak with it,
a tiny drop falls
giving you just enough-
to raise your weapon
and take perfect aim-
for there is no more.
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