Madrigal was the wanded man who walked, never ran;
Deceased like a fish with a torn fin, a plant spotted white;
A hole in a purse. A walleted blight
On their peace, a ban.
Magical or diseased, you are only a fragment of time now
Meant for lore or a drawing of me in my youth.
Nothing so much as raising the bar, the stakes of the game
A dousing in words, the trilling and spilling of letters and an
Unfettering bringing quiet ropes and chains like
Seaweed round the foot while swimming.
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