My silence is a worm-hole in the
Small cramped dark night hell.
The pulse of your hate jumps under
My thumb like a scalpel, anonymous
Surgeon. I am no longer capable of
Affection. It follows me around like a
Black-eyed shadow, haunting grievance.
Take what is your mouth, it is a marvelous
Object in your terrible room. Take my eyes
Which went away like two canyons. My hands
Are full of blindness. Wrap me in a cloth and
Place me on a sledge drawn into the opening
Of my womb. I am in trance state visited by the
Deceased, forging as priests, the link between
The visible world and the netherworld. This funerary
Rite is a ritual of bringing statues to life. I will begin
A new journey. I am pure coming forth from the grave.
Do not utter my sacred name, neither too much
Or too little. I will prosper involving divinity, a cleansing,
Depicted in the hands of nearly every goddess. I
Am the pure gold woman, the stain of you no longer tarnishes.
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