Whistling, he enters my room. My heart races like the hooves of a doomed deer. Leaning close, he pricks me, then takes a hanky from his pocket; wiping my blood from his horn.
My soul oozes from the hole he made in my skin, and it pours into a jar.
Read a poem about bartering with the devil by clicking
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(Photo by Roar Petersen of freeimages.com)