Your sadness is not sacred
that it may be pimped is no secret
It is iron to be manipulated
you must silver plate it
See how it inclines,
points to a goldmine
It is top soil in spring
whose crop nourished by tears
It is cattle waiting in the abattoir
It is cash in a clenched claw
It is raw
potential
festering
leaking
releasing spores
It is a deep well
to draw from at will
imperishable,
it is many, many things
except sacred.
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