Byzantine is My mind
Its where I dwell
Do not W/we All?

Musing slowly
taken turns down paths  
slides down the boughs
consider the blade of
slowly evolving
that little maggot at the root  

worry, haste, Trust and honesty
what vermin take them away
and leave moldy carcasses ,
rotting and smelly

They should be cast
on the gutter-swine
a feast for them
rooting incessantly
in the open cauldron
of minds

Blood-red morass      and dripping
That will-o'wisp is gone forever,
excised and thrown
only seen
not eaten
Nay for the little pigs
come forth, devour it whole  
as the thing  disappears

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