The light burns me.
The master’s unlatched the gates.
I’m on parole, he says.
He has me in his sights, always.
Pacing in his chambers
within a narrow shaft of light.
A sliver I’ve learned to exact along,
A perfected dance, a song
of meticulous, rhythmless tune.
He feeds me drops of control
buffers along the edge of shadows.
He knows I could never stay beyond him,
Not forever.
He taunts me with warm numbness
Familiar and still,
Like an orgasmic shrill.
The end.
Life, his mother, a trickster.
She’s beautiful with a black heart.
At least her son is truthful.
Death is always.
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