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Apathy This cup I have tipped for the thirsting mouth a communal drink prepared with sanctity, my life, my words, my unremittent force sap slow from out the consecrated wounds, stigmatas of an unrelenting cross. To share with these others, a partial take from where so little sustenance returns, I imagine a husk ripped hard to rape the kernel and the nibbling teeth that tickle then pierce down, no contortion of mind can compensate the bite! For the hungry who request but a sample and yet manage to wrestle the whole, my own arm, I twist, to usher submission, a submission regret would hesitate to own, such servitude reeks of self-sadistic sanction. With each plucking hand that seeks the flesh beneath the flesh, these fingers, I cannot hold or stay from their decomposing task, they strip away, away from the bone the muscles that make for sympathetic motion. And so, social function is as a ravenous beast sent to devour the fragile membrane around my newly born efforts toward friendly intimation; I cannot lend the fleece to clothe the malice of the predator who strikes without a sound! |
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