Upon an artist's pallet
a finite muck shone pocked.
Prefigured in its poison
and merged in arabesque,
the misguided lobe was shrivelled and adrift.
The horoscope was caste to irradiate the slaves,
the siege was short
and profit was adduced.
All the night's participants had been having life struggles with work and sleep and study and not getting enough of one or too much of the other and the general lassitude and wear that has accrued like a ships barnacles around your bow a few weeks into your journey through the winter...
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