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Their hearts marred like smudged custard scars
On the sleeve of a favourite shirt
The Plain janes and Anonymous johns of a post-modern century
Stalk the streets in schadenfreude induced reverie
Tittering at tripping toddlers
And sneering at closing down sales
As sham seraphim weaving sickly samsaras
From the shadows of their broken wings,
Gathering up their moulted feathers
And redirecting them to new purposes
Even as none are apparent.
It is not an inherent cruelty to their natures that leads them towards
These behaviours and patterns of thinking,
Nor a will to pay back the world for any kind of injury they have received at its hands
(Be it real or only perceived)
Not cruelty, but an irrepressible creativity is their driving force
A delight in the finding of stories
Anywhere and everywhere
With little care for whether they see hells invading heavens
Or heavens invading hells.
The motion is the same, but only reversed,
And a child's stumblings are the Fall From Grace performed in miniature. |
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