Spun into some
sticky-ended polymer,
I melted into a wide-eyed
sleep and farmed for false
crystals into which
I would etch my name.
Absent light, I would
carve into the air a song
of myself, mold
a crust and
inner core of prostrate
testaments, filled
with lives I'd
lead with no slack
given to gray threads.
And in the stone
transcribe a fate
so worth my martyrdom
that I should be the
most inevitable saint.
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