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1 March 2010

Days lengthen, but fascinations linger
Burning bright-red blotches onto unprotected flesh;
Why this self-chosen, self-imposed sorrow
(No, no, not true sorrow at all;
Some simulacrum, a pseudo-suffering to come before a fall)
That I choose, like some
Ugly, festering blister
To pick and pick and pick at
(Only making the corruption worse)
Rather than sucking up, being a man
And lancing it, drained once and for all,
The stinging Light of glory
Cleansing, lovingly, with antiseptic bite.

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