If tonight stars do bow and moon shines slow,
Then my past shall beg some words of this show.
The rimes of time that owe the old regimes,
Yet those speak the prime of crimes.
In words that never pored, nor explored,
Nor in minds, those drops poured.
At dusk, a man in the crowd so proud,
Biting his lips in and out, mere flowering sprout.
Laid the lessons, enrolled with possession,
Pricked by aggression and howled by ambition.
Crispy clear cuts and wounds inherited in and around,
Disciples of rain that surrenders and surrounds,
They do, and do for all, for all do they love,
At being that separates their hands and gloves.
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