Unhewn,
it's a line at 3 a.m.,
like an awkward confession,
or some Futurist manifesto,
tectonics, crystallised.

Anisotropic, yet thrilled,
it is embedded in your eyes:
"Is that sapphire?"

How would you know unless you crack that stone open,
only to see
a little revolutionary's heart, bedizened - 
“alas, I perish -
my merits and misdeeds go unjudged!”

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