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An Ear for Post-Impressionism

I always thought
you loved me,
by the way you stroked
my lobe.

I heard your heart
beat bounce
and the flash flood
of art –

aerial blood:
the circular of your life,
my life,
our symbiosis.

But how could I
have known you
could hear
what I could not.

You thought it was me
who mocked you,
until the point
began to boil.

When the hammer cast down
and judgement ruled,
the voices convinced
you –

I was a traitor,
a scapegoat framed,
for all the torment.

I will you
to put away the knife
but you don’t listen,
you’re listening

to the voices that say
cut me away.



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