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November 8, 2015

There is a war between my ribs and spine,
a foul beating violence of pain
and anguish casting corpses through my lungs,
since neither side’s considering a draw
of breath. Above, where mead is drained in quaffs
of holy fervour, warfare is but food,
a necessary balance, watched and lost,
forgotten, won.

There is no battle in
your touch, no discord in your words; your voice
is earth’s first dawn, your skin is paradise:
will you not bring me back to you, in peace,
to terror rest and fear abandon?

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