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Anything

Even if the pen wanted to write
What does the bard's heart dictate?

The melodies of fingers plucking on strings
Are not the same if the waves
Don't go along with the wind and the feelings
That must ensemble themselves with the atmosphere
And what's the wind's dictation
When the feelings are as empty
As a bow without an arrow?

I can pretend to communicate myself with stones
And wonder on the badlands with no more weapons
Than a guitar
But the pupa of my core is thick
And although the creature inside beats
Endlessly
It doesn't crack
Waiting for an ax to break its habits
A ghost who must hallow my being

With that human sweetness
So toxic

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