A circumference in the sand of the subconscious, you stand;
a sanctuary sketched against the infinite desert where madness meets the sky.
Your trial by fire, in black blood and lunacy and in the darkness, you take a bruise in penance.
The long night of the soul beneath a grinning sickle moon, where your flesh mother takes child and makes a weapon.
You wear your torturer, black and white, upon your back, bearing its weight and endless temperament.
It is your shield and sword and your enabler when all others are lost.
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