Out of its cage of bone,
Its heaving grille of rumors—
My metronome,
My honeycomb and crypt
Of jealousies long since
Preyed on, played out,
My spoiled prince.
Suppose then I could hold it
Out toward you, could feel
Its growling hound of blood
Brought to heel,
Its scarred skin grown taut
With anticipating your touch,
The tentative caress
Or sudden clutch.
Suppose you could watch it burn,
A jagged crown of flames
Above the empty rooms
Where counterclaims
Of air and anger feed
The fire's quickening flush
And into whose remorse
Excuses rush.
Would you then stretch your hand
To take my scalding gift?
And would you kiss the blackened
Hypocrite?
It's yours, it's yours—this gift,
This grievance embedded in each,
Where time will never matter
And words can't reach.
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