I am obsidian sheathed in ice.
A patient heat rests at my core.
I will melt between your twisting palms,
but I won't ever betray my warmth.
My swollen bones broke hollowed skin,
I etched my stories into them.
There's no forgetting —
the narrative has becoming quite apparent.
It's in the shadow spaces, falling in-between
the killing floor and the waking dream.
I can't always escape myself,
when externalities come reigning down,
and I get so caught up in the violence
of the outer's intrusion: the collision of lives.
Ensnaring time in a web woven outside the constraints of seconds summed
Nauseous and yet humbled.
Self-baptised, immersed in
the fragile beauty of a weightless life —
untouched by violence,
untouched by love.
Remission of sin administered by the enduring heretic.
I'll keep my love pure, I will tend to it: it's a sacrament.
Being towards degradation.
I will reclaim my silence.
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