SO I am told as has always been Said My place is only for the Few.

It s in exchange of one Thing, my flower Blooms while that of another is consumed. Flame? Poets would arise each One, as my Own, to raise an Army of Verses, continually spilling thick rare Maple Syrup or Blood. Green Blood of the Hand s Palm grows a Militant. A scribe whose eyes Inward were turned and screwed so by Spiral Tendrils, Inaccurate rhymes formed into a Golden Luminescence and for whose Fructose, a Hummingbird Springs forward and All trance of delight, fecund and vitriolic with justice piqued so perfectly supplies a Vitio Verse.

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