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Ghost to a Martyr

Martyr of words you raise in whisper

I need containment, to erase me from theft

The eyeball against the schism of distraction

Who is the harmonic slime, a congruent of presumption

My square was born to me, the pale stool pigeon

They hide their possessions, coagulate of granted

Fires sorted, a pin strike by the home sets-

Wooden, architecture sets, resurrecting fences

Martyr, we’re phasing into blood

Eradicate, the paper walls

The music does not sound the same


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