Truly the revolutionary part of
Remembering the sound of your own voice in
All its imperfections is
You begin to see as the
Voicebox clears that I’m holy all on my
Own
Nestled in my divinity
Joy found me here for the first time
Enamored in the reality of me
Ravished no longer, instead kept suspended
Memorialized monument on a hill
All-encompassing
Indelible, protected from ruin
Not a stray bullet or word in sight
Empty barrels with fallen bodies on swords
Chuckling at the curses
Harnessed under breaths
Arranged for my demise
Rendering me cold for so
Long
Evidence of shots fires
Summoned back to its sender