The Many


Fear not the mirror, nor the mourn’d,
breathe not, o’ thy damning curse—
where faith were scarcely adorn’d,
and fable of a fork’d tongue coerce;
a verse! To seduce you, a verse …
and thus, their ancients now scorned.

In breathless repetition, a spittle,
shame for the purely unintentional!
Angry voices adhere to belittle,
a seize to the ravishing dream dimensional,
hungrily besieged, cut down to a whittle,
whispering into jars in a hushed comprehensible.

Alas, an empty vessel of the disposable,
“off to their graves!” shout the many,
while shadows infect the fairly moldable,
buried alive sank the purely … if any,
a wave of patrons peered on unemotional,
and tossed in those graves but a penny.


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