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.
take heed:
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.