Amid the fruitful night
I am wishing
For those sorrowful things
To vanish

I cling to the light
Like a moth fluttering––
My heart suddenly

I want to take
All these old towels
And burn them––
                             To watch the shock
                             Of the hallowed smoke rise
                             And find the night

To them, I am small
To them, I am nothing

To them, I speak of high things
To them, I show nothing

And I watch as they
Speak of themselves
So downright holy
So downright knowing
                                                               they are not.

And I watch as their
Mouths smirk,
Their shoulders assert
That they are something.

They are something
In this world.
Call it what you will,
But I kinda like it.

                                                Because inside
                                                A fire’s rising,
                                                A passion intensifying,
                                                To be right
                                                In my eyes.

I just want to say:
“Go to sleep, little child,
For tonight,
You are holy.

                                                         You are everything.”


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