Poem: The Shadow Knows

He who says horrible things,

tickling,

tickling the ivories with a feather,

taunting trumpets from behind

the hill, march at his sides

out of step, disagreeable and hair trigger

tempers tear at the heat making multiple

maniacs, spouting like a fountain

of opinion, or more like a hydrant

in a riot, but what a party.

Poem: The Shadow Knows

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