4.


As tigers prowl the taste buds of mistaken mainframes,
Flirtations slow to the larghissimo of closing times.

Sandbag promised correspondence written in a veil of thorns. 
And pale sherberts bump pink shapes with leaping fruit.

Would the red sea wish to be more plump or red?
Knife to throat, armadas knuckle down white pepper mysteries, 

The kernel of faint consciousness, cottonmouth incarnate. 
Poison arrows all flare up in smoke, while sad decisions 

Linger underneath the face of the swollen sun. 
I plan heresies like moccasins, diffuse myself some crocodile tears.
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