Long Sable Torch
I hold a long sable torch,
Currently dead to energy,
And put a stare into the mirror
Concavely doming the bulb;
A photonic dart in waiting to misanthropist quietus.
I tilt it up, then down,
Watching many mes extend into view
And gathering into the centre to
Slip; battling eachother fall
Back out of existence.
The third time I lay my distorted mutations
Circled around the dart.
He is subdued; he cannot shoot.
But yet it
And leaked through the glass,
Paining my eyes blinder,
And my faces, supposed to be in intaglio,
The dart's galamatias on their glass plynth.
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