INCARNATION

In a silent room
where even broken spirit weeping
burns its torrid day and lies vacant,
dry, spent of any flow, coldly dying
down a stiff wood grained gray
as the heart of all good
spills away its blood pools
of groping fingers underneath
the shutting door of night;
in the rip-stained, stripped-through
stillness of this time
something starts to sing.

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