Such monumental
mulling went into it
That any
reversal of fortune implies a bid
Against a house
of curtaincalls, accordingly
Carded for
the timeless therapy of a spree;
Such
purposeful pain and purity went into it
That you’d
think none of us trim and fit
To gainsay
the dead for the utility of bread
Among hordes envious of those who fled
Shadowside. Credibility marooned, bereft
Of tantalizing
foolery to foul a dreamer’s yield;
It builds seascapes
to sail, a pagan’s point
To parse the
sky’s failure to repair. I’m left
All alone, ozoned
bones brittle, mis-healed,
Paying the sharksuited to sue the joint.
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