The Second Coming

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Say the lonely inherit the weak,
the poor, the decrepit… and indulged in
rusted scenes and cast the hero-
The hesitant romantic raised on a scorned pedestal.

And in dawn, we’ll shun the chariot laden with gifts
of pride: an invitation through iron gates.
And there, the fey lie dying,
we’ll promenade –this blissful oblivion where
monotony rules the doldrums.

A sip of nepenthe clears the ambitious
hoards; a prick from the drip soothes
the busy busy masses.

Peace, dear anarchist, there is order in streams and knolls,
Protest not the evolution of slaves.

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