though i would ask for an oracle
i have not a single wish remaining
and wander through night streets
chuckling to myself about some
story that continues to unfold
of a new ace turned candle flame
and let loose upon a field of jackals
when mowers are stillness
and photos of modern goddesses
are left rotting in the elements
as though a time to release
is a time to push us through to music
on a sacred mountain near where
olives grow and wine pours from cracks
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