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  • Grappling arms of the harkened underbrush
    threaten tyranny of a patrolled tightness
    sometime in the Now.
    I hear a battle cry beckoning from the borderlands
    and a sobbing from the overthrown.

    My helpless scent lies dormant
    I wait for her orders,
    a foot soldier I am,
    licking blades of green yellowed grass as
    underground revolutions resurface.

    To the sound of plunging hooves
    crested, her dried-red bridal veil rides
    craning against her side-saddled dominance,
    all for all, with, and to
    a blue-blade drawn tight against her thigh.

    You know her,
    You’ve seen the Queen before.
    She’ll have your head
    And wear it tied to her saddle.
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