#filmisgood

Everythin' out here is broken, or

Blemished and battered, and tattered

But mine

You let it burn and decay and created

The kings of the cinder divine

I am done asking and pleading and

Begging you recognize I am alive

The mirror unwinds: Twin archetypes collide

I am reborn, proliferated by a self-replicating passenger: Ghost

For the sun to bleach, the wind and the birds to tear,

The snow to cover over with a pure fleece

And the New England cloud to work upon

With the grey absolution of its slow, most lilac-smelling rain,

Until there is nothing there

That ever knew a master or a slave

Or, brooding on the symbol of a wrong,

Threw down the irons in the field of peace.

John Brown is dead, he will not come again,

But I'll break the silence now