3 December 2008
These days, my hands are dirty
often, alternately orange, raging red
or indigo, depending on which image
I’m liberating. I imagine there’s someone
within my spheres of influence
who would be ill-disposed to appear
in public with dark half-moons
of dye in the beds of her fingernails,
the intricate swirl-tracings
on each fingertip, these signs of what I do,
who I am. When they fade,
the time has come to find another
medium by which Reality may find
the light, Shadows may be put to flight.
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