The stitch of mouths,
the binding of hands,
the fire, the pyre,
the frenzy—
history hangs
in the balance,
tucked between teeth,
a bite,
a smile,
a coward—
he asks you to come closer,
he asks you to trust,
he demands
your silence,
and make no mistake:
a wolf
can easily hide itself
among other wolves,
but it takes a monster
to stand in the center
and call the mirror a liar,
to deny the twist
of his own myth,
to burn Rome down
and call it justice.

There’s nothing in this room
that hasn’t happened
before—but that doesn’t mean
honest hands should give Nero
his fiddle, or that solid souls
should offer
Circe her poison—
once the seal is broken,
you do not accept it,
you do not condone it,
you do not make it pretty,
and you do not look away.

has a thousand heads,
and your heart is a sword:
use it wisely. The wolf is waiting—
be the stones
in its stomach.

Categories: poem, poems, Poetry, Uncategorized
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