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