The Marooned Pale Flag

The propensity of lost souls
is the vagary of pain.
The tattered remains left behind
can only dream to consummate.
Behold! the dreary gore,
the spectacle of yore,
the profanities of fate,
the quagmire of spate.
The sacrilegious monk
cursed upon the holy writ.
The fawn took to the fore
and rallied till the crimson shade.
The vicissitudes of the day...
brawled out the lone sage.

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