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    Stood there leaning to the city moon,
    casting silhouettes tall to grip her white rooms
    the black-clad voyeur in his black-clad masque
    in the serpentine sun of tragedy basked

    Stood there cursing at the soul-dead mass
    with their fabled illusions, the vain dreams that passed
    splinters of a life rushing by in the whirl
    a lone, silent warrior in a fantasy world

    He cried for night / but night could not come
    so, swept in the shroud of Misanthropia he went away
    and fed the empty galleries
    with the artifacts of the black rain
    sunken into the shadows with a dry, sardonic smile

    He made the footprints a part of his heart
    to rouse a sacred confrontation

    Stood there carving on the monument to lies
    digging of the earth, making friends with the soil
    as the all-mother rises and bares her bleeding thighs
    he disappears into her cold, icy womb

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