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religious poem

the agony of having too much power
old wine to drink
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
braided and woven
my true love from her pillow rose
beside a stricken field
i do not pray for peace
royal feast was done
in his guarded tent
at midnight
skies they were ashen and sober
if the red slayer think he slays
though i am little as all little things

 



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