Akin to a stilleto in the throat
It slices through dying illusion
Driving out the age old spectors
Who thrive on demented collusion
Much like a single shaft of light
Penetrating great forboding pitch
It exists in spite of many actors
Trying to find and share a glitch
Yet its breaths are quite limited
Without assistance it will expire
Much like a tiny burgeoning spark
It may just set the world on fire
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