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PRISON A FLAME, by                    
First Line: You run in riddles who would have love chained
Last Line: What slyly glides, dark disillusionment ......)


You run in riddles who would have Love chained,
feet bound -- wings clipped -- hot rebel heart subdued
to mundane usage -- airy flight constrained,
enslaved to whims of panders to the lewd.
Still riddling paradox, you then desire
this fettered thing to wheel on wings, and soar,
bidding this lump to blaze with holy fire --
its vital spark negated at the core ...

First you must, Canute-wise, command the free
ocean to cease its billowing and swell;
prison a flame and quench its ecstasy --
transfix the sun, assuage the pangs of hell --
(But snug within all captive fruit is pent
what slyly glides, dark disillusionment ......)





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