Sic Transit Gloria

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Lemon zest bites the tongue, sweetened by meringue.

Clearly, the art of cooking isn’t dead.

Narrow eyes scan the pack, searching for wayward fleece.

Feeling reassured, our pastor livens the dead.

Just feel the upholstery on this one; they don’t make them like this anymore.

The man offers 2000; its air conditioning is dead.

With a spectral ringing of the bell, the mongrel bows his head,

knowing that he will soon starve. Pavlov has long been dead.

Ocean currents carry ephemeral rest and the smell of carrion.

Exposed skeletons scuttle into boxes of nets, and feed on the dead.

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