What, if not, the tender
tendrils of the night-blooming
jasmine to take away
the hideous gaptoothed
face of a winter witch;
the siren song of
hate the runs so cold
beneath the iceberg of
liberty and freedom --
We are owed nothing
and must rest on the
shoulders of the dead
who would no longer
fight of us, even if we
were alive, a pact with
a past so far forgotten
that even the speed
of death has capitulated.
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