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The King is Dead
Flung on the black earth, a crowntwisted, cauterised with flame.Just out of shot, the king’s bonescrumbled, powder.
Quill
floats on a blood stream tarnished silver, sprinkled with grey pearls, tears or sweat.
Carp
He gasps, glitters, flails water, grasps bronze,feels muscles slack, the cold hook.
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