Limbless hollow:
A cantankerous purveyor
of vehicular artefacts, flowing thunderously
in a god-like fury,
that confounds even the conveyed.

Me, gutless?

An enigmatic whiplash,
with an inert rage strolling skywards
in frenzied circles,
all consuming, all encompassing.

Or, is it true?

I, who swim
in the oceans of the wind,
listening to the martyr’s silent screams.
Do you remember the one-legged masquerade
at the market square, whose shadow flees
into seizures while chanting rhapsodies of blood?
My liquid womb flew into a rapturous rhythm,
while the gatekeeper mourned the lame martyr’s betrothal.
A new resolve was born that evening.
Never will the loin of the hunter king go hungry again.

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