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pa3que May 2019
on the edge of an apron,
border above,
hands bleed out the natron,
of thee, flies a dove.

a candlelight’s beam,
a trapdoor below,
the words to one seem,
for other to know.

soft natron in voice,
the labyrinth backstage,
out heart peaks a choice,
trapped in a black cage.

hearts bleed out to tears,
such glory they’ve seen,
eyes brighten of flares,
thee treasure, so keen.

a bow of the taking,
brown feathers as prop,
out wings lads were aiding,
necks tied with a strop.

— The End —