And on that day you go numb and silent with stillborn tales on your tongue and on your fingertips, you remember the darkness of your own phantom, and his rage, and the night that brought you to him, hurling curses at your jailers, Anger eating itself, A fire consuming its own heart. For on that day that your thick tongue goes silent, you realise, your fire should not be damned or allowed to burn wildly, but should be protected and harnessed, in whirlwinds, a liquid heat to sanctify all that your hands would touch.


Thank you :-)

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