Washed

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In times uncertain, most soothing,
Gambles vision to earthly screams,
Silent to the core, secrecy tamed,
Departed beings of places unnamed.

Convinced of the sun in rain,
One or two, the healthy game,
Whispers to unfold a terrain,
In dreamy cages that often chain,
Ideals of rust, towards decay,
Monsoons a dwelling, must retain,
Memories of damp curtains
And breezy delight.

Simple ages to sanctify,
Confused presences, fading light,
Wisdom in trees lay cocooned,
And graves all channeling.
Then as you might hope,
Amidst crackling smokes
Emerged a troubled flame,
Upon which a mossy stone,
Prince of sorted Necromancy
On knees and black cloak aiding,
Longer hairs and maroon eyes gleaming.
Senses to which his quality mine,
Spoken narrator, the dead confine.
Chants the tune creeper on a tree
Spirits as their sodden vaults free,
Illuminated beyond pretense
In traces of revenge,
Holy smoke, the fiery perfume,
And the modern reveal:

Badges surrender, milk’s disorder,
Twice confused and thrice mistaken,
One narration, past elation,
I bring to you the holy maze,
Champions of mother bareheaded,
Scorpions to snake to dragons see,
A glistening mulberry blackness,
Eyes puncture and ears bleed,
Gory thy wish, mine serene
All the way true,
Until the further treaty.
Shone on a mountain bright,
The evening sun to lecherous pride…

***

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