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The Growth and Life Cycle of a Homophobe There is a place where sorrow grows, Stone by stone, into steep granite walls That cover souls and keep them buried well, Until the dismal day they all crawl out Still gagging clay, expectorating Into mason jars, Pandora's boxes, Of their own decay. We are all dirt But they a different kind, With nothing sparking inside To light the sky And fireflies decay inside these jars, In potpourri of musty, scented, lies On the release of furies from these cells No splashing grace, no happiness abounds No pleasure taken but their timid own They sink small sharpened teeth Around ripe peaches On another's furrowed ground Dim shadow tinctures of small withered souls They meet at gates to glean chaff out of grain And always manage to transliterate A distant cry of joy as their own pain |
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