paper cut

letters with no return address

shoved into my mailbox at midnight

barely licked closed to seal

your worries of being uncovered

your life of shrouds and vapors

smoke and mirrors in a funhouse

where reality is already distorted

the lines between the stage and substantive

smudged in charcoal from the fire you set

and I walked right in because I am a fire walker

I was born to take risk

I hoped when I reached the highest flames

not to be burned in the blaze

or to feel the sting of the paper cut from

opening letters with no return addresses


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