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Elicia Hurst
Poems
Apr 2018
Not all learned to climb the Sycamore
Master made a tax collector out of me,
Graced me with the scent of gold,
Fresh and stale and warm and cold.
The masses warned me for my fate to be
"The Forth Circle awaits, behold!"
In hushed whispers I was told.
But a poor, blind man now I cannot see
The price upon my head sold,
One more soul to collection old.
Feb 2015
#guilt
#morality
#repentance
#soul
#evil
#condemnation
#trapped
Written by
Elicia Hurst
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