the souls of men are too often born,
red-raw and howling,
of scandals and spectacles:
the scarlet letter branded on the breast
and blooming in the womb.
tangled advents snatched from the clench of children
and scattered under the table to the host beneath:
the imperial souls so ill-sheathed:
dogs and circus freaks,
whores and seraphs, all communing
at the knee.
our legacy roars forth
in violent elegance
of such as these.
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