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It has descended;
the madness has become that
parasol on a hit of white ants
I have forever dreaded.
In grandiosity I am pleased
to ride out the night,
now a wizard in white,
now a placated being
with nowhere else to roam,
since I have been everywhere;
and everywhere having gone,
I am chained to a sofa that cries,
its belly distended.
I cannot sing to you, having
sung to the crickets their songs.
poem by Stan Petrovich
Added by Poetry Lover
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