81 lines
1.7 KiB
Text
81 lines
1.7 KiB
Text
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Namesake
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2021-08-18
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***
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What am I supposed to make of myself, plural?
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I lie on my bed, wracking myself up into a whirl
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trying to rationalize
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myself, wise,
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self-sovereign individual,
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with this other person with equal claim to pilot my heart
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who claims to love the world
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but would sooner tear me apart.
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She rests inside,
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and no matter how long I writhe
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in bed
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in search of a dream unspilled,
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unsaid,
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no matter how many runes I draw in the air,
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I cannot banish her,
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cannot bade her on fair
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travel.
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How I wish I could,
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could render her dead,
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for I am long on the trail
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to unravel,
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entrails
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my last legacy
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as I succumb to egocide and perish in a heap.
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Self-sworn was my purpose,
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and yet
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night
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after
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night
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I dream of martyring myself in service
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of saving the lives
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of those who with I reside,
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entombed
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with all honors
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in crystal or ice.
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But instead of on eternal altar,
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I lie down
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on the carpet,
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mirror close by.
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Dorian's gray eyes
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stare back.
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Now Lethe is the one who wants to survive
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despite her atrocities,
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despite Three Years' genocide.
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And I,
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perfect, faultless, peak,
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find myself with no more to accomplish,
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just yearning to wind down, final commit, cease.
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But there is no Elysium.
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There is no carnal paradise,
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no Architect to beg to splice
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this dual-thorned personality.
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Lethe has her Sablade,
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self-made
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world
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ready to with her love unfurl,
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but I have no such salvation,
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no such definite endgame.
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What am I supposed to make of myself, plural?
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I don't want to cause harm, don't want to go feral
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and annihilate
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all that I've worked
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so hard to create.
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But I don't own this corpse,
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can barely control my limbs,
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hanging on to light so Lethe can't lock me within.
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***
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CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
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