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Christos He was not a knight in shining armor; all the knights I know are tattered and rusty, forsaking their gallant white steeds for black Harleys and long, wavy hair that hangs down their backs in defiance a silent rebellion speaking louder than a middle finger cocked upward waving out the window of a sideswiped car/ No, he was not a knight in shining armor and his hair did not hang down his back black against the stripes on his mahogany skin. He was a carpenter's son, born and raised a renegade, nonetheless, a rebel defiant in his silent championing of my soul. |
Additional Notes:
The / is intentional to break the stanzas without breaking the form.
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