Ah—then let it breathe a little:
For I have sinned,
and from the ash of deed and thought
a second self was spun—
a quiet twin of consequence.
It walks beside me, unnamed,
clothed not in flesh but in becoming;
each step I take, it answers,
each silence, it remembers.
Not punishment, but echo—
not a chain, but a shadow
cast by the fire I lit.
And still, in turning,
in the slow unlearning of flame,
even shadows thin
before a different light.
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