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Missed Aches

A fathomless ideal in transient delay;
You impossible impostor posing for piss—
Did you think at some millionth mile, I’d say:
"I don’t mind the aches that you mutedly miss.”
 
No! I do! —I am not in this mess
Just to figure out the cauldron is bare.
You better at least have ash to confess,
Or I’ll cull your entrails to dump inside there.
 
So turn around now and burn down the town,
I’ll smoke my last breath while the castles crumble.
Pull all the rocks from the rust in my crown—
Till I stumble through the briar with sorrow and mumble.
 
For some solemn day when the grime takes you back
And when you have drizzle and ground in your skull,
I’ll rise from the rubble of this panic attack—
To play with the maggots that writhe in your hull.
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