where is the limb of my poem?

where is the limb of my poem? stare enough at its shadow, and it will pierce through the glue that makes it all song — what kills me not makes me wronger – this ancient war-call, siren-song of augmented unreals — a long silence weathers the cull — the bread is worn with silver — the tryst is harm is old — where is the arm that sips along with kindred stars — what kills me is wont not to hurt-no-more this subliminal effluent bubbling up to guard the darling of ease and calculated arrow of death — a song is littled off into postulate an etch is broken it is told – what kills me is wont not to hurt-no-more this subliminal effluent bubbling up to guard the darling of ease and calculated arrow of death – artful & fully deceived –