Combustible

Sharpen me and burn the plastic shavings.

Pile my inequities for the

sake of little trees and those apart from

me. And fly on wings of truth, as she was

before I found her asleep in a den

of thieves. Of the shadows that creep and eat

the light of you, remember you’ve been

given wings not made of wax nor tinder.

Rise then, up above the part of me that used to be,

and sing of your own sweet symphonies.

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