Let it come, not tickling like a feather
or like the fan of the temptress,
beckoning me to secret chambers
not like the caress of a lover,
a light touch to wake me in the pallid pink dawn
but like the wing of a dove sweeping sharp
or a rush of fire cutting through blind haze
brutish as a slash throat razor
and there is the truth spilling out
collecting in pools around my heels
clay bound and crumbling to dust
as I am -
Come, holy spirit, enlighten me
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