Coup de force
by fire of some fists, looking
below a pair of stingy lips into
trials thrown at
old, bending knees; newer minds
donning corselets against a bog of doubts
where
a few moves snicker and swirl through cenotaphs of festering truth
swilled out with red under daylight.
The spot of trouble decays with mourning
and neatly tuned tomes stale fear in your vicious latte cups.
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