Clean-Slate Sun

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In your slow killing you sang mercy and tool's virtue, of narrow strength that would grow from blood, of hollow fortune and relief held on a stick across from my box.   I sank in the bog of my greed, and yours, always fixed with the simme...

In your slow killing you sang mercy and

tool's virtue, of narrow strength that would grow

from blood, of hollow fortune and relief

held on a stick across from my box.

 

I sank in the bog of my greed, and yours,

always fixed with the simmer of shame

to be mine, of me, for me. Still a song

of the covet stuck in your hide, not mine,

of me, or for me. "Look at my life."

 

Your vacuous sure is painted clean-slate

grey like my sun.

The acid spit of my antique paper heart

melts no truth but the birthing slits

of your knife.

Yet the ask remains: "But what of this

paralyzed life?"

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