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A permafrost voice that clicks right into place-

A sundering return, with flashy indifference,

“I can open the door myself!” “No receipt!”

(fuck you, fuck you all…I’m as hard as fuck).

Cruelty is a fashion, like cigarettes or checkered socks.

How fragile and vulnerable you seem to me,

Animal seized behind those gelid metal bars.

Once, you knew of oneric hopes and vital energy,

How to grasp for the heavens and pull down the clouds.

Once you knew…now trapped somewhere inside, it screams,

And I can still hear it through that gun-metal-cocking voice,

An affecting cry so smothered and criminally unheard by most-

Like the brushing sound of a seedling as it pushes through the soil.

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