myth in:re verse
about the ancient hobble plodding
morning stars/routinely plotted
phlegmatic souls slough
dross from gold/brass seraphs
burning oil as censers fume,
the debris of gods moved on/pain,
whatever is vain, floats freely;
birdsong sung on each bough/
as we creep, aurora arraying
the hoardings so easily mislaid/
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