and the swirling buttress of truths
falls slack
the hollow temple heaves its last stone collapse
the lowered head
mischievously thinks of lifting it
I am content
my lover waits in the back room
brushing the truth off each tile
he knows
I have come to inspect
the gracefulness of certainty
he pours a cup
for me to drink from
and predictably I will wipe the rim of the glass
why, you ask?
because I have never handled something so worthy
of my service
Your Beloved
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