"He who does not believe in the words of Na Prous
     shall die an eternal death."
 — Na Prous Boneta
     (1290-1325, burned at the stake)

You sit in your favorite chair, reading
a book, unable to trust the voice rising

from deep inside. You think that silence
will protect you from the poisonous dark

that permeates all you thought you knew.
You wish to move beyond your words into

another life, but what if that life is
as empty as your words, as empty as

a mouth agape, wanting to speak, wanting
to empty itself of the heat within?

You sit in your chair, not knowing where or
when your day will end, only that the world

grows thick with pain while you wait, your body
a slow fuse smoldering, when you could speak

words dripping with rain. Don’t mumble your way
toward the sound of your own beginning.

To live means to cast the demon chained within
onto the ashes of your own silent pyre.



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