Our stories are
Our enemies.
Inasmuch as
We are our own
Stories, we are
Also our own
Worst enemies.
We're inficted.
Even the sacred,
Demonstrably
Non-narrative
Pure gem-like flame
Of the holy
Idiot's dream,
This lyric poem,
Hides a story,
A child's serpent
Gobbling real toads
In the secret
Garden of verse.
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