pressure

wild thing am I; tempered by a golden thread, embedded in my skin, appearing like a vessel of blood, and like a vessel of blood it shares something of its bounty with my lowly cells.

They speak in unison upon this acceptance: what have we to gain?

I speak in unison – the illusion of unison, when my mind is blanketed in lavish ignorance and the warmth of blood making itself loud in my face: what have I to gain?

My fingers, weighty, swollen; my flesh, vibrant and beloved; I play along the line.

Mine. Could not my teeth pry it loose? Could not my lips taste what pours from it in the same way I’ve treasured the notes of my own blood?

I rest against stone and mortar, I roll over, the grass is dry, the catapults click. The treacherous will have their day. A day. I have lived so many.

 

 

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