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It's easier to think of
Him as a barstool
Isn't it? Stained
A dark amber by the liquid
He drinks to forget you
Standing on your lofty hill
Like wearing a white robe
And pretending your staff
Into turning into a snake.
It must be hard
To take the mask off
At night, when the streets
Greet with cobwebs and cardboard
Not shrines or tambourines
And in your bathroom mirror
You see through his eyes
Where permission is finally given
To hurt someone.