Contusions where a bracer sits
Sutures circletting sawn wrists
Sore, agonised with gifts.
Squeezing to little movement
In the humble office, abluting
Below a blue and grey mosaic
Of Roman Pluto threshing hay.
What rooted this bruising
What routed my armies
In rash confusion
Making me Napoleon.
Elba, Saint Helena
Or there adjacent
Frosting my plates
Lacing my hair
With wroth arsenic.
Alchemisland 
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