If dancing thrice around the split shield wasn't
enough, the bronze razor sharp the trident cracked,
where the legion whores picked across the dead, as
absent wives dreamed and sensed the worst.
Where glory tore through the heavens with the stab
of a torn standard, and Peresphone pretended to be free,
climbing out of a fissure in the earth, for another spring
of dance and glutinous, temporary glee.
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