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Some nights the hateful women scream at me
Midst kisses running down my head and back.
The bellows shake the windows violently.
Illuminations always fade to black.
The grand arena screaming out my name
Throw scarlet thorns between the lions’ teeth.
The roaring crowds will instigate the flame
Of Spirits’ understated need to breathe.
Yet, while I stroll alongside Charon’s brook,
Considering the passing shades of life,
I cast their words as waves into the book
And feed the fishes cleaning Fortune’s knife.
They dance beneath the Democlean sword
Dispensing giggles with Demeter’s word.

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