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Found in Notes on phone

Beneath the waves a gyre turns it’s gaze.
Awake, at last, that sleeping giant is loosed
once more upon the world. Anarchy is the rule
that sets the center askew; the antichrist is surely near.
The shooter, his rifle, is surely at hand;
surely there’s some terrorist plan,
surely the boogeyman has come to bear
those Freddy claws and leave us turning still
amidst out night of timid sleep and fevered chill.

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