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acrostic poem

weak-winged is song
the sun is up
i burn no incense
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
i shall see a star tonight
let me move slowly through the street
and breaketh bread no more
a few more windy days
i despise my friends more than you
when night drifts along the streets of the city
the single clenched fist lifted and ready

 



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