My hand is power
where art does flower
from tiny buds once green.
A pink rose nods; its head to preen
and deep scent fans wide lovely wings.
I feel the dart of Mystic Muse; o how my rapt heart sings
to send my light around the world aflame in woe and pangs
long chained in ire; so gnawed by fangs
of hate and thought made sour.
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