Souvenir
There is upstairs in the spare room
in a cupboard upon a shelf
out of reach and gathering dust
a broken jar
which he can no longer fill
with salves such as pity, love, hope or self
The skin and what is within is dry and cracked,
the conscience flaked, peeled away, still
the view from the window is of a raw sky
bloody flayed glorious of and in itself
Great poem
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