they say, that few have succeeded yet.
breaking in, hitting hard enough to chip
the ice that has held hostage the soul.
if our heat reaches inside, do you think
the veins will fog, crystalize, and crack
the slush finding a way to armor
the bones of our fallen back.

I ask, what is the purpose of an
arm without its hand. is it enough
for distanced drops of paint to paint
the image of a unit, dying, of solid
into evaporating gas; making home
in foreign skies, of hands letting go
that were meant to be held intertwined.

we know, that this heat from without
is nothing compared to within, I know,
it is in the end that we begin. we know,
in our hearts we are tied, like twine,
shoe-laced into the canals of our
souls and our minds. the world knows,
loss is not loss, when in place
millions of hearts will stand to rise.

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