So tired,
the weight of a damp world
sopping on my shoulders–and
who put that bloody towel about my neck,
but my stained hands alone–who else could have
waked the beast already wandering in
dreams of devouring whole psyches full,
who fed the monster weary food for thought,
as lines in broken plaster, stolen in order to
hold up her own house of lies–and now my eyelids
sag with the sands of annihilated glass sent
back to the dust from whence it came
and there went rationality with it; but
doesn’t Othello teach what seams of reason
can undo when passion has been
sown up? How could any other mirror be
except one found in my own tears,
drowning in a lake of my self-fullfilling prophecy–
alive as a god,
tired as the beast.


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