God's spawned family molted all the hair
that I saved for the sake of dreary power
and spat into pale blue cups of old regret.
I remember the church flowers before they faded
and to that decay three heroes go -
what prowling bald insistent eye
keeps those few happy while the others
remain taut with the eager and the want?
So feeble they will always see discarded
a face that I know was only a sad departing.
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