while my brother turns the hunter, I learn to suffer
the burning man on deserted sands
turn the clock on a perfect hand,
gods purchase thoughts as the service demands
converse on plots and imperfect plans,
as the surface chips and rots bishops build monuments to false accomplishments
towers topple,
spread across continents when I spit Oz winds
twins chopped still inkblot charted quadrants,
each fifth is a Sergeant, insuring his six is guarded
refine print,
build my borns quick before the cipher's final tick has started
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