We  make ourselves
Sick in this place - all the
111 we do revisits us in
One  vast curve that
Strikes like a dart when
Deed reverts to
Doer and visits him
With his own ill -
Thus are our hearts
Fouled by our own
Mouths and hands, we
Nurture our  own
Darkness when  we
Turn  the living flame
To  night and visit all our
Hate and lust
On  those more
Blessed than us, mistaking
Our own lives
For worthlessness.
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