Curse the blessed pen

Stoney spire entwines spine

Brickwork shudders at two oh nine

This curse of mine to carve my time

with the curve of kisses turned line and then rhyme

will align my mind beside evaporated brine

Crystal salt, dehydrated saline

The whispers, the whines I mine as minerals

of Solomon’s solitude at wisdom’s pinnacle

Spinster spinning invisible visions

Invariably ruminating long-made decisions

Derision derides debilitating diatribes

at dialectic demons dividing my insides

In stifling trifles with rifle by side

I hunt for myself where my self cannot hide

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