Young man quietly places chains
On his own wrists
To be silent and to silence
Ten long years of penitent pride
Flesh grows over steel
The chains feel (almost) good
Cold steel shackles clink
They clatter like a pharisee
Praying proudly for all to see
Piety of the widow's mite
Power of the sinner's prayer
Have yet to set him free
From public, picked, and open wounds
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