The Passing
Through pink glasses aiming Northward
Arctic lights and arrows quiver
The city life drags the final sword
As a sugar shack lilts with the river
The bow is his selenite
Mantra to foe, making them shudder
The amulet is his kryptonite
A tiller man now with no rudder
Longer boats to take him away await
Tacking slowly to avoid live minds
Leave a trail of very odd gait
Lowering his remains below water lines
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