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his rant can be heard above the bustle of the homeward privileged
coarse ramblings from the rancid shadows
as fetid hands lift flame to spoon
and bring to boil the milk of his deliverance
he glides cold steel into the froth of sweet promise
still warm with transformation
to impale his demon with the blessed dagger
as silver-white dreams carry him away
gone – long before the battered wound will coagulate
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rob kistner © 2009