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Some part of him tore its robes,
some other part stitched them
together.
Don't say he is awkwardly made
he had to get dressed in the dark.
He eats boneless words, stays inside himself
painting eyes on closed shells.
It is another torrential morning
that he must plunged through.
The world is stampeding over him
and he trembles under its heavy hooves.
Today or tomorrow
his head will crack open,
a pustule of self-hatred erupt,
and a slavering beast will emerge
to gun down what he cannot love.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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