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What crisis?
The headdress glitters,
a throne enticing artisans –
downtrodden,
abounding around suckles
of an age old milk that feeds,
nourishes animate needs.
The rich, aristocrats, rulers too –
petition tears
running into Iris as the eonile:

They heard and experienced
delusions of grandeur, senile,                             weighed down heavy then disintegration.

So what crisis?
Isis squabble among
circumcised spirits in pursuit
of a a cathartic god-man
to sit upon that Dark Chair,
seated briefly,
usurping a grieving Mother
from her rightful place.

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