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For once first thing
was heroes, not noises or
vicious sounds that’d pierce
the affected peace of being—
of mine.

At the far end of the place of
ink and signs and scribbles
props lay blurred by hush—

the sexy jug of runners-up,
a chipped cup with one woeful
crack from rim to base—

and all way down to
whispers stale,
of thoughts and threats.

Surely an artifice of sorts
as shaped by monsters—
the sheer putrescence
that fear is, of not
being safe.