The emotional gamut, to be expected, but an unexpected renaissance in the resultant flames emerges. I am right back there, where I was pre-Capricorn, standing in my own feet, resilient, in deflecting the noise.

It’s a raw edge, the sharpened tongue. The lash back against the spiralling loss; the castigation, the inflamed state of a man at his station. Riding roughshod, with buckshot, tucked at the back of the trunk, lurching forwards as the truck stops.

Over the hill, the last dance. Save it for me, but take the first few steps, of the breathless wrested, dishonest quest. I won’t even a lay, not a body or brick, I’m not a Gatsby perpendicular to retrospect, I’m the marshalled threat, the bulletproof vest.

Kevlar like Bescar, spearheaded initiative, I’m the golden retriever, or pistol receiver. Scaramanga, loose shirt, one more than the rest, staring at a redress in a hall of mirrors. No man is an island, but I beg to differ; I’m not the land or the castle but the sea and the river, and I regret the suppressor.

I take my aim, to reassert the frame, and as the cracks in the face denounce the cost of the fame I reassess the terrain. We’re not one in the same, I was a neophyte at life, but I honoured the brain. The emotionless Vader, the unforgivable traitor; exposed the heart of a fraud with the slice of a saber.

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