poetry

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poe:

a

t
r
e
e

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Ungala mustovika!
the locals cry
as they ritualistically disembowel me

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he's dizzy, on a whim;
with aspirations of greatness that pack him
into a six-sided box. trapped inside,

this prison has no doors: it's a die.

so roll it.

***

maybe you've had a bit too much
to think
drunk off my breath?

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legion,

bloody lesion

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swallow the sun

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