There is a chink in my chain mail breastplate
that I slay night-slippers just to scratch at,
because I love danger: check or checkmate,
and I'll overturn the board to patch that:
slit with insane swagger and confidence,
which is not the same as reinforcement;
the fissure remains and incompetence
saves my life and twists where my true course went:
I mean, the path, the prose, the road, the rhyme
along which I'm wending, rent by daggers
in the heart that make signposts that mark time
and distance the step from how he staggers:
I mean me: I'm so open to shifting,
as we saunter the rate is uplifting.

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