Burnt Verse: the Fiction-Broker
While planning which sermons to miss
the fiction-broker static lies
atop a pine-strewn precipice,
his peristalsis boiling skies.
The tumult teething down beneath
the fiction-broker's solvent sighs
concerns the crumbled ashen wreath,
whose burning so the priest denies.
As lanterns light procession tips
sadistic laughs combine with cries;
the fiction-broker slurps his lips
at thoughts of those he does despise.
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