Left upon my pedestal, alone, towering
over my self, my glory
Others come to poke and prod at my
spectacle with their sticks,
at the ready to run
at my slightest twitch.
it is Hell enough without their
flames, licking
at my open wounds drawn
by needles and reeds and thorns.
Sorry am I to them all
for their insatiable curiosity, driving
them, inevitably, far away while I am
left still, stuck, on my teetering, fiery
tower, trapped among the


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