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Beneath skin there is blood
Beneath blood there is bone
Within bone there are scraps
Of your grandmother's secret diary
Someone should've given you
As a self-help manual
When you were still a child
To save you from the person you have come to be
Yet there are blue-black
Feathers beneath bone
Made magenta by the moon:
Under a dim light in a dark void
A schizophrenic announces
Between slurs he wrote the bible
Sadly, I don't have the heart to tell him
It was me who wrote the bible
Yes—: it was the dream I recorded on waking
After falling asleep on the job
Writing the white pages for the future
Which if you open randomly, close your eyes
And run your finger over the text
Will tell you
Who your biological parents
Really are