if you were recognized as
an accomplice to
the theft of
that singling still instant
you'd be strung up, too
by that which is
your most tender
and sincere
you'd be suspended
alongside a dozen other
dribbling danglers
in an observance of
your treacherous failure
you'd not be allowed
a final free-write
and the tainted pages of
your carnal-crafted journal
would be bloodrags
beneath you
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