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I am the son of a treacherous hand. Told golden and chosen and lifted to light. Reflected in brass on the casket of hope. In spite I decline, I decline, I decline.
Now gold turns to lead turns to acid to piss. Naked and awake in the kitchen I see myself, two apples and a chair, in a house that is nonetheless collapsing from the corrosion of doubt.
From a life of the mind, from the absence of heroes, just the buckling of foundations, just the ebbing of tides. While this town was talking shit about itself, while I was doing likewise, while I was mouthing hymns to the walls.
Now my wounds close wearily, light is no longer with me, only a weight I cannot lift. A projection on the side of your house that reads I no longer have the energy for breathing.