mono by Matt Hemmerich

if I am imperfect,
harden my form
in a furnace of blood

I could starve for
a tithe of love
or forever dwell
in the lowest heaven of your chambers

if infidelity is the inclusive spirit
lacerate this flesh
for the world has pillaged your monoliths
and trampled my crucible

if such turmoil bore light
I could leave pure, and
blister the evening where your garden grows

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