Most nights we
struggle. The dollars
are dancing, the
firmament romancing.
We are wanted and
over-misty at the prospect
of being denied. This feeble
walk, this tender 
outreach that culminates
in horse-feathers and tales
of unrelenting woe, will not
prosecute us any more. The
Leviathan is substantial, is
lost on heathens, is an
anathema to most rational-
minded folk, who twist
and stare at certain tumult.
Thusly we proceed but we
will not bleed. The horoscope
of the unyielding, the brush of
the unwieldy. What fictional
flow gave forth his fine raiment?
What’s the reason for
a flower?

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