Less the noise that drives you mad
and more the silence, the chamber built
where you can hear the pump of your
own blood. Some days you're Samson,
some days the temple. Catastrophize
all you want, but your favorite song
never lasts long enough, and even if it did,
you wouldn't like it anymore. Byron mostly
lied about the Ponte dei sospiri —
built too late for any victim
to catch one last look at the beauty.
Inquisitions end and was anyone
ever guilty? It was all petty
crimes. Oh, to sleep as ducks, heads
tucked in the crease of a wing as
rain slides harmlessly away. Lift your
wing and see the apocalypse
not as an end, but as it is, a bridge:
the lifting of the veil.
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