I’m at the unholy mercy of the cycle
Going mano a mano with the angel Michael
Where the moving finger touches I collapse
blame it on conditioning; a faulty synapse
predictably down in the bowels of toil
alone without antagonist or a foil
no exposition there no chance at action
not much chance at all up against the faction
of rhetoricians and armchair pundits
how long ago did I exhaust the fun bits
these days I’m just in there to stay awake
and see what strange familiar form
the cycle will take
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