oh! my injured brother.
my lost tormentor.
you beast
of the severed hand.
travail through these nights of fire,
sifting through the bones
and ruins.
i lay down into the sprawling fields,
a series of small
explosions go off in my brain;
i sink into the inky darkness
as words escape me,
pulled under by the distancing reports.
my throat goes dry and full of copper.
my nose choked acridity.
i look up toward the dead and dying,
a vicissitude reflecting; refracting.
the vicissitude
a monolith of my new becoming
clicks on,
starts to play and replay.
again and again
and again.
now you
my injured brother;
sickly and scarred,
damaged and harmed
hang there on the brink of surrender.
slowly bringing me to recognize
that I am becoming;
that i have become now
a beast
with a
severed
hand.
we will not be;
we can not be praised for
the manner in which we suffer.
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