The Powerbroker

In  boding love lives a lifespan of Powerbroker,

Who aligns with life at its foot hold,

And deign nothing more than the luck that portends,

itself as becoming a laughing stock in the association,

Of Italian saints now celebrating their existence,

in a bar readily cherishing  the material of love song,

that  he sang in mortuary the day her beloved died,

and to reconcile the fate to film on the screen,

where Hero lies and lies about truth of gravity,

That nothing binds him to the girl in spotted frock,

who frolicked like an angel in the arms of a devil,

half representing the work of  a Philosopher,

Daring to control the engine of poetic machinery,

stop-gaping now and then varied thorns among roses,

that he picked the rose and had decorated her hair.

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