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Of Their Falling Axes









My grove is stilled in fallacy,
branches entangled
like faith-crushed antlers,
roots sipping in whisky-gush,
the truth betrayed
in rumor-hush.


I have walked the walk
in my own garden,
yet the fence had crumbled:
to timbers and rubble.


These battle-lines are vague,
my white-flag is flailing
in the wind:

but curse them,
they cannot halt
their axes from falling.









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