on my several resurrections


my seventh birth.
my dismal resurrection with the
pseudoangelic masses
with love that is real and weary and relentless and old and
while i sit and sing the glory of my thoughtful revolution and revival cause honey
i'm home.

(but then, housed hearts crumble too)
my heart she swells and crashes and breaks with the
open, translucent love of light
(and light is what darkness is made of)
but while light sifts through the drudge of a raw, black brain
daggers and knives have found homes in me.

the grace is in the fall
the grace is the dirt under nails clawing for reality
it is the sting in the eye from tears and old mascara
and the throb of the ache of the muscle tied in tight bows of total decimation.
god, don't wait for me to shine again.
find the glow of my darkness and the life in my
unbearable being
cause honey
    i'll be home again

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