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‘tis an artist
who sees the light
and makes the darkness
vent his spite.

bends it, molds
the cold expanse.
damns his soul,
his life, recants.

an empty space
of trace, of waste
canvassed paint that’s
not worth praise.

a mind, a maze,
unamazing ways
that ignite hate
to fan the flames.

and yet self-conscious,
at his own face, nauseous.
he proceeds cautious,
his own hostage.

-m.p. 04/07/2016

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