If all I ever get to do in this world is breathe

I guess that is good enough for the likes of me

If all I ever accomplish is learn to smile

I guess that is the best gift that I can offer

Yet even in the breathing and smiling I wreak

I spin unwanted curses and dead things into motion

From the imaginary to the gray matter to the otherworldly

Places too bright and shimmery for the likes of me

So I hover in time softened hovels with guilt red bricks

And shame grey sandstone, covering my head with

too long grimy hands, gnarled by wind and sun and rain

 I long for a stronger lungs, access to less perverted oxygen

and then like the softest tear falling down the youngest cheek

That sound. Sweet. Pure. Alive. Warm. Strong. Free.

“My Beloved.”

 I am cleaned by words, the likes of me.

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