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Poetic Censorship
The red pen hovers like a hawk,
its beak sharp with erasure.
Words are stripped of their fever,
left pale, bloodless, trembling.
A thought, once naked,
is swaddled in gauze—
so the wound won’t offend.
The page shivers in silence.
I watch my tongue,
tethered in the mouth’s dark stall.
A candle tries to speak in flame,
but the wax floods its throat.
Behind the curtain,
the truth grows mildew,
while the official story
shines like polished bone.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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