Your bedside table
With matchboxes.
I have filled them with my memories.
Wait for you to strike the strip.
In your sleep,
You wield a flint-tipped sword
In the likeness of a future.
Your horse is unmasked.
There were self-proclaimed
Heroes before you;
Each with his own voice of truth.
They each played siren songs
And handed me pounds of fish.
The ignobility of these men
Was shell-shocked
And filled with practice.
You walk comfortably
On feet you own.
Wearing only the t-shirt
We one-quarter stole.
Cast your shield aside,
Strike upward and pull down
Ignite the piles of hushed tears
And mistaken promises.
The night of bitter coldness
And its draft.
Let us set the night on fire
Let us be baptized
In the sea of flame.
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