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Writer's pictureDarkling Thrushes

Vulture's Promontory

Here, the path ends. Cut-off where poetry

Would be killed in another step. Like

Socrates drinking hemlock. He pretends

To be friend to friend, but there is nothing,


Just wickedness under a hat, asking over

And over for me to suck pollution

From his giving hands. We could have

Ruled the Kings in poverty of our souls.


But no. But no, it's time for him to go.

I hope the image of an empty cliff-edge,

Is the last thing his eyes pretend to see,

Before he's dashed upon the rocks.

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The Wendigo made the sky misty and cold.

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