Mote


This black cannot be washed from my trembling fists

It cannot be scraped from my jagged nails

 

Through my action it has permeated meat and marrow and fiber and…

 

Mote

 

The smoldering mote of a mind

Or perhaps the shattered fragment of a soul

 

My center is imbrued with the darkest shade

The very deepest taint envelops me now

 

I scratch at the stain till the shell is torn

And I lie bleeding among the rest of us

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