when does a fire in the heart meet its fated hand—

when does a fire in the heart meet its fated hand—
when does hunger deep inside rise up into pupils wide,
and madness seep from bellows out-through breachings of hair and wrinklings of skin—

o what rage could be so sweet to whirl away a woesome world,

catch the tears to fall from a loneliness so absurd,
and teach its holy breath, once hidden in the sunlight,
to escape in clouds of warmth caught only by nights’ friends.

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