In ombre appearance,
the transparency slips away.
Not only deceiving the individual
with gray silken warriors,
but the eye of the gator too.
In the hollow jeans,
reckless skepticism trends
allocating the capers turning
three this coming eve.
No fluff of goose,
no eggs to hard boil,
no trace of blood,
and necks to slice open.
The red Saturday wins
over all the champions
loosing their footing in the soil
because we attempted the brick oven
to tip over someone else's
begotten horizon.
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