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could i lift myself in my own upturnèd hands 
and you drink from me, you failure of a man 
you failed, failed, abdicated man 
you pretender to god 
do you not see what you’ve wrought, and not? 

do you not see that my presence here 
is not nobility and strength, 
rather illness and taint? 

and this convent is no refuge 
rather just a box you’ve built in which to lock me, 
your soul 
and the other animals at your feet 
are like me, 
only meat, 
to a man gone running 
from his soul, 
from me, 
you son of a whore

say something nice ... or not

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