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Words will sour in your lust for power, it is these deeds that come. Prayer is lush, it makes one cower but pure is the cure that scours. I fend off these baleful insults which tumult through my brave innocence. The flower of the flesh is stretched into power. I oft come here and smell the daisies by the lake, where bones so fresh waste away in your wake.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022

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Date: 3/28/2022 1:28:00 PM
Yes, this IS poetry. Thanks for share.
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