Prejudice

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Prejudice

These fell miasmic rings of mist, with ghoulish menace bound,

Like noose-horizons tightening my little world around,

They still the soaring will to wing, to dance, to speed away,

And fling the soul insurgent back into its shell of clay:

Beneath incrusted silences, a seething Etna lies,

The fire of whose furnaces may sleep⁠—but never dies!