Having mind wrung and
clutched tight o'er his scalding fingers
and illen astringent words
in what unrequited fury loves
Roots upheaved by language spade
uncover'd trinkets and keepsakes
Best not to be uttered or spoken 'cept
"Thine own little amusements"
Clenched too far with his eyes
Probe not, dear friend
For sewn tight your lips shall comfort
and pace backwards as foreseen
Take your contrition to a shape
Of something, like Great Omens
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