28 days (this metamorphosis of words)
Father Benedetto: [speaking to Jack] You cannot deny the existence of hell.
You live in it. It is a place without love.
yes we had begun again
rebuilding and sculpting
our subterranean world
our lives at the margins
and anyone would admit
that this fragile Shangri-La
this sanctuary spawned softly
from the blood of imagination
could not stand for long
like sandcastles washed away
by the insistent rising tide
chanting this can never be
so how can i remain bound
buried under two surgical emails
crafted 28 days apart cycling
from blissful hope to stripped anger?
so how can i face this metamorphosis
of words like scalpels and sutures
casting me precious in your heart
and then bull shit on your tongue?
when the steel of me lies in bone
surrounded by the fragility called
skin blood flesh muscles and sinew
that burns and bruises under blows
aiming past this cartoon rib cage
expanding and contracting always you
and framing this beating heart aching
singing holding believing nonetheless
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