The Magic of Pain --

Wrested from your Hands the rope

pulls, tugging against the Wind as You

question the Truth

of the Statement or at

Least its Urgency here on

our corrugated

mud-flats pixies and sprites

bow down before

our Elongated ache, our Straight-out

Inheritance

baked for Us poor Souls withering

in the Sun crying, "Mama,

Mama, I am

burning" -- We

are those toasted At the Ball, the

Shy ones in the corner,

backs against the Wall, our hard breathing

underlying our true Selves

with a procured Manumission of Souls --

What would it be if we gave in, Surrendered

our Isolation of Tears and poured

our blood on the sand

painting red circles in the Shells lingering by the Tide? --