You can’t escape
when it’s your blood
that scalds the skin.

Trapped by the cauldron
of your epidermis which
houses the stew which

is your undoing,
you attempt to purify
the mix which drowns

your soul, the rationality
of what you are; you
flounder as molten

red refuses clear divisions.

Half truths and
half tongues plague
the imagination,

the world calling,
a siren’s call, but
shuns upon the landing.

For a legacy cannot
be claimed by a
birthright that

runs muddy like a
river drinking in the
sins of war. So I

boil in my own alloy.

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