Coruscated metal is what my brain feels like

when it’s called to play the strange game,
and its call is a needle fragment 
strengthened to revile and to maim. 
I have a single thought: that divine campaigns
to deny the pain of the servant class
end up biting back at the complainant
when a mountain is needed to crawl:
I crawl suddenly up from the 
rock that you needed to best me;
Are you doing this just to test me?
Are you so clueless as to bless me?
My photography contains the aims
of your organic heart, its eyes and brain.
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