I palm the early morning sun,
holding back the molten glow
that teems as if to overrun
my eyes, my skull, all that I know.
It seeks secrets best left in the dark
lest the revelations both destroy and enlighten,
like the golden lid rising off the Ark
to burn away falseness, and to brighten.
My hand, it is as skin and flame
pushing away the infectious light,
but that light inscribes every sin and shame
like a tattoo needle, or a sharp nib’s bite.
Sins are written in the folds of the brain
and dwell in shameless shade for a reason;
the brain cannot bear what it is, the pain
as the sun illuminates, season to season.

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