It is the crooked hand of death itself

Sorrow a tinkering poised on edge of seat

says to Pain anything good to eat?

Agony has some fine aching ribs

Misery stir-fries some exquisite maudlin

Sadness will bake the tastiest humble pie

Melancholies home-made plum wine is divine

but if I had to pick, I’d choose the silvered hand of Mercury

splitting night into day with temperature

how long can we hold sweaty palms waiting for

gods who never hear our demands?

demand less, says Patience

have faith says Caution

think says Reason

relax says Sloth

we rise to the call of the hunted

o-er hill and dale we fold in number

collectively a blur of fables and fears gathering

temperance by cold river

baptize the unworthy

crown the sinner

shackle the good

our world is upside down, sitting on its head like a content idiot

crushing worth beneath greed and…

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