Oh diclonius, crowned captive
in horns – Pan’s disciple
abstinent of guilt and ego.

There you dance for masters
bare breasted and masked,
drenched in the rainfall
of your reckoning.

A perfect fruit of lesser wombs,
man nurtures its own destruction
in blindness. The truth of Plato’s cave

is the end of fearful creatures.
Dressed in your death’s head
and vectors,
beauty begun anew.

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