"the hysteria inherent
in pushing away all the gold that has made you
the yellowed lion in your chest roaring its hunger
and the seabirds that were your eyes
blinded by their own sight, flown,
pecking, now, at the shore of the world
for its scraps, tethered
by only the slightest chain
of obligation
to their seeing
your guilt-stained mouth
and its reddened teeth
pulsing crimson beneath with truth
and speaking lies--
blood is its own punishment.
like water to water,
love runs back to love.
there is no replacement
for the gold that has made you golden.
there is only the beauty of living and dying
somewhere within the vague province
of your own sight.
it doesn't matter
if there is no safety in your voice--
go back, go back
and sing again."
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