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A twisted, tangled mangle of brambles stretches unassisted,
unwisely enlisted by Shiva’s wistful, star-spangled mistress.
Her call—a gnarled preamble most fearful—chilled and twisted,
grabs hold of the night’s wisps and ensembles with swiftness.
Lark! The darkness bites from thorns and red thistles,
a fistful of bristles, spurs and prickles—underbrush murky, smoking
and thirsty, residents of Aesop’s forest bitter with dismissals.
Frozen—in time—vines soaking, thicket horns fermenting litter choking,
creeping closer, corrupting the feathery wings of Daedalus’ son.
Disrupting Kronos’ flow—a detainee for eternity under a cherry tree—
as all seasons turn to winter, vegetation of life lost (to everyone).
Such is the cruel world when unjust mere humans are left to oversee.