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Ages away
I
Slice mired spiral vernacular veneer
Egg on my face
Wash my hands of it
Dry wittily
Skin beyond recognition
Somewhat shoddily
Reject validity
Head toward Chaos
Reeking of havoc
I
Tackle the turmoil
In my stride
Nowhere to go
Nothing to hide
Lick the wounds of my promised
Foreign body
Second coming
In your face
Ages away
Seeds are sewn
Battles rage
Wars unwon
Bets are wagered
All the while
Long overgrown
Short on style
Nobody home
Take volition
To point
Wistful thinking

In outline

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