but why else to breathe in said joys
save for in the hope of creating cancers of beauty
in the cells to fester gorgeously,
metastasizing in breathless succession
throughout one’s body until,
gloriously consumed,
we burst in ecstasy?

pity the wretch who wears the patch instead,
and cries himself to sleep
as his bliss flutters broken-winged to the window,
and smacks the time and again

it could have slept in the shimmering cage he built,
and been safe and warm, fed and exercised often
rather than concussed, blind,
and in the end, useless


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