Energy of The Minotaur

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Energy of The Minotaur

The tab gives way easily.
The whole can is cold;
Condensating.

An odor of rocket fuel
Seeps into the air
When the seal breaks.

Gripping it gives way
To a vision of cold
Bull horns.

Tipping it into the mouth
Spills into your body
A sickly sweet ichor,

Like the taste of an
Enflamed maniac
Breaking through walls.

With every pulse
Of the heart, another
Wall smashed through

With a sledgehammer
And ran through
On fire.

Tastes dissapate into
Plasma in the air.
A chemical triple point.

An exhaust.
A venting.
A cold roar of the minotaur

Rising and lowering
Over the expanse of
Red hills scorched

By the blaze of a
Maniac bleeding ichor
With horns as sledgehammers.

Plasma smoke billows;
Exhaust of its pulse.
A chemical roar

Of the minotaur.

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