Beat this poem out of me,
like a towel against a wall,
let my sand fall,
I’m wet with lust, anger and melancholy,
I’m arid with sorrow, disappointment and worry,
yet I have to endure,
for the breath of seven,
to remain pure.

What traps a man,
between embrace and a shackle,
is the limit of his imagination,
every emotion,
is a welcome expiation,
a meditation,
a realisation,
and we long for the weight to shed,
just to cipher a stanza,
be it spoken or toil through fingers,
contorted in sinew and spine,
whether the work of heart,
or absent of mind.


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