I have grown to love these walls
as my skin, unforgiving leather
binding for my pages, without whom

my name has no voice --
but I must dance, curl like
bon-fire smoke, just missing

my fingers, though it peels away
that brick-solid world,
leave me tattered, unbound,

leaves cold but true, when
my voice needs no name,
only the simplest melodies

without words, not now, with
my arteries drumming.
Let's dance.

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