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The canonizing was
in truth
a trap,
as sure as steel bars
would have held her.
Though in this case
they were twisted by deception
to a crown.
The pedastal they set her on
in truth a cage.
The sainted image
she so readily put on
kept her locked up
in sweetness and self-sacrifice
and gave her only one
complaisant face to wear.
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How could they tell
the voice in each of us
would one day swell
from docile silence
to this powering resonance
and shatter
the contorting legacy?
The two-edged sword of truth
in time
would set us free.
And we'd emerge
with dancing
from the rubble
of bent haloes and
discarded platitudes.
Dressed only as ourselves.
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