Were I to cull a story,

cut off its wings to still its tongue,

would you be any safer from the past?

The chills walking your spine are not

exiting belief but

sashes and

passages of truth.

Words have no allegiance

once the fire is struck,

and winged shadow escapes, up,

out, beyond-

toward a second

a third

an eleventh

pulsing heart

with ears to hear.

Practice your listening-

what you fear most may be 

the balm of the deep.

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