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Yes, let it be known

that demon

who swims through blood

with needles and foul poisons

opening our deepest wounds

forgotten scars that grimace

from their intestinal gloom


Ripping once again the tattered

blankets, comforters and other

scolded memories emblazoned

on our inner tapestries by

god-fearing sanctimonious

wielders of the tongue and rod

themselves hiding some ancient

wound some tribal curse


Look he rides again the ghastly

painter on his dark-winged steed

daubing his tarry and odorous

design over our brightest panoramas


Glaring as we the carriers of that

ancient virus tease, jeer, scold, whip

in our turn until the furthest generation

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© Johnmichael Simon



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