He needs someone to chop
down those limbs of thoughts
that dangle like black antlers from his head.
A swift slicing,
or a cauterizing burn.
But all he finds
are those who’ll hang flowers,
wreaths of careful discipline,
from his limbs.
They polish the, stroke them.
He needs that one
who will wield the axe or the torch.
The one covered in ash.
The one covered in blood.
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