Young lady intoning. Twenty-four hours. The elderly gentleman
of the coldest season stretches for eternal life
with an elongating silhouette
despite my prancing away.
Young lady intoning! I demand. Twenty-four hours!
I shout like the Babaylan I will
become to retain the clouds
from darkening the sun, from
draining the sky of its azure
Stare. He has donned lots of
costumes and I have allowed him:
the first messenger of God who descended
and descended. “It’s a magnificent journey,”
he has murmured as a piece of his
incantation. “This is a game of poker
I have been defeated in, but no longer want
to engage in,” I answer. Young lady intoning.
Twenty-four hours. I demand and announce:
“You cannot taunt, my concealed
fiend. For I engaged with all-or-nothing while you merely observed.”
Young lady intoning. Twenty-four hours. I chanced
it all whereas you hindered
so I could intone sounds
solely virtuous young men can summon,
solely frightened hounds can listen to.
I forgot myself in the ‘ravine
of wickedness’ but my wings unfolded
to let me ascend. Unlike your
Wings, mine did not deceive--
unfolding as I changed my mind
for Elysium closer than a breath away.
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