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Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Darken mirror looking back 3

It is hard to breathe life

into the shaded baneness of grays.

My wounds will never kill me.

There is always candlelight before me.

I cannot burn up in it or blow it out.

I cannot directly brighten

its cast on me.

My perceptions limit

the oxygen to burn.

If wick were rage,

all the wax of worry and woes

would be long gone.

A flash burn of essence love

would have come my way.

I am grounded

by these dark swellings.

These are feelings

of muted self-love.

If soot were my gift,

I could smear myself

towards whole.

Accolades from others

becomes my private language

of renunciation.

All others fail me

in this form of honoring.

Their spiritual presence

goes its own way.

I am emotionally imprisoned.

It is solemnly shadowed

yet murky in a friendly way.

For me, pain is also my pledge

and my privilege,

to live it warrior richly forward

in a private humble style.

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