Nestled snugly
at the core
of the mountain of things
that I deplore
is a sweaty palm
that's hardly sore,
unfurled adroitly
to implore
some cloud-masked
puppeteer for more, more, more,
while eagerly slamming shut
every last door
that stands up ahead
and came before,
barely attached
to a mouth puking roars,
as, overhead, a rocky expanse
of heavy ore soars,
this hollow center
haphazardly bored.
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