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anewlightinthedark:

In Drought Of Shame

Stay of purpose of will has disabled flight and fight,

yet cures not the empty vagaries of my Perfect Sin.

.

Soft are the rounded edges{blades} that gather my 

sides like so many raised swords at Golgotha, crusades

.

of mindless idolatry of relics misplaced, misguided. Therein

lies the root of the horror of my falling, for I was not cast out,

.

but fell down on hungry knees and drivel of dystopia. The

truth of my loathing is my lack of desire for less than.

.

Think of it, a ranked member of Choir, belittling his very

own place in things, as if the very Hand Of God smited

.

my intrinsic and necessary worth. There are now a row of twelve 

Angels Of Light standing in front of me, hands proffered in

.

assisted rise, and I dare say I am abandoned? Insanity, this

narcissistic self flagellum, this cessation of growth, rebirth.

.

My wings are cold, and I falsely imagine warmth from their

blanketing my exposed wound, my gaping, crying chest.

.

I need to jump.

.

I need to open the blackened ash covered joy,

.

and let warmth spread through me…

.

in flight. Even if in drought of shame, fly.

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