to find it's foremost face opposed to dawn's
indifferent, brilliant bright tucked behind lake
mists all thick and bold. The Sandman's done drawn
a mandala, refined for all it's sleep
depravity; deliciousness itself
considering the risen winds (from deep
within the sea's throat sore) which blast and pelt
(with bitter rains) the intricate figure
toward oblivion's salty, farthest
shore. Sunlight isn't requisite; insures
the easy (only) elements are fast
devoured by the agitated eyes
of the luckless- blind to the shadow's prize.
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