we carry wrapped around
our head and hands,
the talisman of sanction,
the communion of bondage.
how steep our chapel roars,
from the hill within the bells,
angled to measure,
all frequency frozen.
the wind chimes
in revolution,
twirl the dagger to the wound,
she speaks in silence,
her song for the meadow.
and the laurel bush,
swallowed inside itself,
eternal beauty,
unto thorns like a rose.
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