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The bomb is in the temple, the eraser on the page.
Our timid mirrors reflect but they never take a step.
A cancer’s in the nipple, spectators usurp the stage.
We mourn heaven: “It’s obscured, so we cannot know its worth.’
And we moan that circumstance proves to be our best defense.
Clouds are integral as stars in its measurement from Earth.
Our judgment misjudges us and aborts our renaissance.
We can reject starvation without accepting poison.
The body discharges pus while mitigating relapse.
Hunkering down in our forts is desperate strategy.
To drive the enemy back we must go upon attack.
Garret verse, a poet’s corpse that has no utility.
Duane Vorhees
Art Rupert Loydell
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