shoveled into silence
not a word drip from your lips!
lest you be the heresy
deserved of the golden whip
that you’re told to love and like
to admire and to desire
to want its pain, for from it you gain
a cleaner burning fire
sweat drips down your pallid face
drops the shape of tears
your tongue the taste of salt and blood
the taste of famished fears
shove it down, let it not arise
have you heard that’s not allowed?
they said, ‘better clothed in disguise
than stand out amongst the crowd’
feeble may your heart now be
weak and shaking are your knees
but strong is the little flame that burns
amongst wet forests of dying trees

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