Essence catching fire

A brimmed wide nadir swagging on ire

A temple too dull to light

Attended at the breadth

Near the loft to cry evil

With its coos fetched at the veil

Like true dark reflection

Unable to examine the mirror

The white lamb sowing the lent

Did not comprehend its mirage

The wish crooked flight

Of singing sad songs at the night

Mired in haunts with no regent

Which snouted the waves at every scent

With tetchy swings at the sty

It just lay there as if to die

Kevin Allen

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