Even
living
in
a beautiful place,
ghosts
of my legacy,
mantric
thoughts
given
like poisonous candy
by
the beasts of conception,
reside
quietly in sealed boxes,
folds
of musty curtains,
and
corners of rooms
concealed
from sight
in
deepest shadow,
until
I, who am so jaded
with
the odd and unusual,
snag
a pant cuff, or tear
a
sleeve to blood,
and
once again,
the
chants begin.
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