Villainous, he blazes out
from his cold, scheming couch.
Giant yellow torches, flaming scout;
herd all goodness into slaughterhouse
Bellowing tongues of gluttony
smack most matter to ashes;
to a sterile grey potpourri
of live skeletons and raw blemishes.
Chasing the world overnight,
he steals through treetops at dawn.
Certain of a triumphant fight,
he gropes with talons drawn.
Stopping in her pubescent tracks,
bare-footed she, watching, waits
for his now flickering, fierce less shafts,
that surge at her to annihilate.
“Who are you,” defeated he cried,
“To remain so untouched?”
She lowered her parasol aside
and blew his embers dead.
“We’ve battled since long ago.
yet your flames shall ever die so.
Stamped at my feet, ever so low”
She shone in unparalleled glow:
“For they call me Hope,
they that who know!”
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