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Make it Work

Present to me the flowing leisure bound to my wish.
We roar together, under the sour,
Above the shimmer of moons.
We fight the sunshine- not festive,
What worth?
To curse.
Flee; you're powerless.
Flee; your legs- powerless.
Stairs stamp.
It echoes around us.
You seek my light? Not equal.
My pleasure?
Burn it.
My glory?
Not equal, not festive, but mine.

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