With mirrors
summoned from
A childhood priest,
Fata Morgana
sweeps a rusty Midas
high and away
in the cold-hearted
dry autumn air.
Calcine flames
wildfire
over Incubus' air castles
Ere tornados blast their
cinders to the cheerless heavens.
Algonquin's frosty smile.
Dreaming of her king's
resplendent touch
Her inexorably
treasured taste
of gold.
I am the charred remains.
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