the only person you should try to be better than is the person you were yesterday
there’s a rare-shackled mote
that’s haunting my throat, rubbing pressure blisters to scars and scarring me whole.
in silence it speaks in my stolen voice:
forget not that you are mortal.
take this hand and mortify
your flesh, your tongue, your words.
walk among angels or heel here at their heels—
nails for soles, ground for earth, earth for soul and dust for worth.
take nothing, leave only a trail of thinned-out ink.
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Thanks for the great poems this month. I enjoy them!