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Monday, 6 February 2012

Valentina Cano-

The Response
I scream and it curdles in mid-air,
falling like a piece of tainted glass to the floor.
My voice shatters.
Cuts into my skin.
Pricks of fear slicing jigsaw pieces
out of our bodies.
Blood spills,
splashing like suffocating fish.
Our eyes widen,
doors left gaping.

He needs someone to chop
down those limbs of thoughts
that dangle like black antlers from his head.
A swift slicing,
or a cauterizing burn.
But all he finds
are those who’ll hang flowers,
wreaths of careful discipline,
from his limbs.
They polish them, stroke them.
He needs that one
who will wield the axe or the torch.
The one covered in ash.
The one covered in blood.

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