The boundary between sacred and scared blurs,
melding with scars and sores and sneezes.
In the closet lie toys of a misspent youth,
violent action figures that do not move.
Something else, too, though I
cannot grasp it, nor hear it, nor see -
Ah! but it that remains waits,
pristine terrible gentleness and the voice
of a drunken angel sobbing in the dark.
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