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A Lost Art


Fallen angels 
do not wait
for operations of justice

hell being too eager
with impetuous desire
liquid with fire

an ignitability
sticky and buoyant

burning
with counter mechanisms
intrigues
and righteous skepticism.

That grow and grow,
every feather
a blue hotel

a flog
for the marring

leaps as heaven
condescends
takes it to heart.

Uncorks the wary
defensively parries!

backsliding -
plucks it apart.

Stubborn, tragic
with sympathies of magic

raises hell
to a lost art.

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