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Before His Majesty

A little vague, so very touched, he sits
with mouth agape, and he regards the men
in white as they unknot his mind with straps,
as they unsicken—free his soul with pins.

The pins feel bad, unlike the flames that fly
in pastures, suns atop a crimson barn,
the straw inside a bed for dreams, the dumb
at prayer, at prayer. Amid the solemn dust,
the horses neighing, childhoods gone amuck,
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Thursday, June 19, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: god
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