I am always the bad one.
Lamps flicker in the lairs
that I pass as my shadow
interrupts the thought patterns
of the inhabitants.
What is this antiseptic cave
where I was born? The ground
is an ooze from some
concrete underground,
the trees and their leaves of paper
jitter vividly like agitated souls.
Gold coils in my eyes, liquid gold
from the mouth of the deceiver.
God has given me a great immune system
to curse my enemies with,
I commence with my leathery spear
and my knives of stars.
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