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Lost

I am no word-smith
I am the anvil
Beaten with a hard
And heated hammer
Scolded by others’
love fashioned upon
my burning body
And I endure it
 
They wish to cure me,
Of my addiction?
Or to be butchered,
And hung up to dry
As I bleed out
Flavour writ upon my flesh
As I hang from a hook
For others’ enjoyment
When I’m dead
 
Wrack my brains,
Or did I mishear,
placed upon others’
Racks I’m pulled and twisted
With turning screws
Extracting my secrets
As I’m hunted for heresy
I dared mutter;
I love you
 
Beauty is in the eye
Of the beholder,
Plucked out then,
Dissected and extracted
Centrifuged and liquidised
Into poetic fancy
I bleed blind though
I’m no Oedipus
There was no sickness
In my love
And what crime?
 
Sat at my side recording
My fevered rants in sympathy
I’m drip fed poison to keep the
Sweat pouring forming words
And I still look on you all as
Perfection
 
But beaten, hung and tortured
Blind and feverish
Who am I to say what is love?
I’ll stumble on.
Someone tell me where to go;
For I am lost

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