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I Am Santo

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Why is it even a word,
this haphazard misappropriation
of allegedly bulletproof opinion
that skulks around solemnly
behind the bold charisma
of loudest claims?
If the sky hates mercy,
then let it bleed
its mercurial happenstance,
fling great clouds of fact
into obscurity
and beach solar entitlement
as of it were a hopeless whale,
drying and gray
on the fine sands of belief.
That dreadful sun.
How it wrings
the necks of the onlookers,
ties hands behind the backs
of the unarmed charitable
and punishes,
with its squalid bright,
the scarred and hopeless,
the unattractive
and imperfect.
Dawns love the beautiful,
kind light
shone on the flawless.
But dusks favor the beasts,
that great majority
so looking to shine,
but loosed only
in the caustic rage
of tectonic cataclysm.
What delightful darkness
their ugly faith dispels.
What igneous hope
lies encrusted
in their splinter-dust bones.
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