trophies of pain I've gathered. whose sorrow
do I shore up, in trifles? the weavings,
paintings, jewels, plants, I bought
with my heart's hope. rocks from the road
to Hell, broke pieces of statuary, ropes,
bricks, from the city of Dis.
encrusted. they surround me: nest
the horror of each act from which I saved
a dried, dismembered hand. poisoned
amulets, empty vials still fuming. their tears
saved longingly as my own. to have
"lived passionately" this secret
hoarding of passion. Truth turned against itself.
by Diane Di Prima
(my bold; my truth)
(give me my life's passion, in whatever form it may be)
(that passion, of course, outside of the love/lust/beauty passion I cultivate every moment with my love)
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