XII - The Hanged Man

Upside-down, right-angled man,
head in water, feet in air,
how you are half
here and half there
breathing fluid
from the grid that hems you in -
poor fish-farm thing -
fed and watered from your beam
of agony
and all the forms below your face
crawl near to see your
passion and your
gritted teeth,
exalted by the depths you plumb
the fallen heart is
raised again to taste the sun
and you emerge dripping 
but serene 
O triumphant one.
The Book of The Scribe
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