Darkness and schmonsequences

What is that Titanic spark yonder?
Is it Athena rising of Metis? What lily?
What Narcissus? What Echo is there?

There, thieving love may be stolen; if
Stoned to death, we are burgled and
Then rendered in three dimensions.

Wet grass under the bridge. What remains?
Fear of the other, presumed loss, false
Idols. The wisdom of commerce. Biscuits.

Crying out from tear-gases, the memory
Of you, not-you, definitely Somme at else.
I did love once, and lost all marbles. Wait.

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