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A host of dead computers spilled open
on the dusty carpet's nude battleground;
sinews and bones of steel, and I'm hoping
to resuscitate  them to sight and sound:
I wish to trace the wounds of memory,
the sights and sounds of past incarnations,
when I was bolder, colder, simmering
like a brew of devilish machinations:
There are pictures of hairs flowing at ease
(not mine) in autumnal lighting – so free;
and music made over(-inspired-)seas,
a template for how my vision should see:
Yeah. The medic at work is a sick sight;
playing God upon rugs – That just ain't right.

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