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I crumple inward
Like the plastic bottle you suck the air from
Until your tongue hurts a little.
Like the Witch-King slain by Eowyn.
Like a fruit left out and filmed in time lapse.
Like the house in Carrie.
As if a vacuum hose were forcibly attached.

Thin and stretched
Like Baggins
Who felt like butter spread over too much bread.

A moving mummy.
A Sméagol
Preserved too long by an earned wickedness
With something noble yet to do
By accident.

Holding conversations
With opposing forces
Upon my shoulders.

Shrinking inward
As if in anticipated pain
From the wizened world.



Lee Dunn View All

Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.

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