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January 8, 2013


You are my water and my wine.
You are my Sermon on the Mount.
You are my fire at the end of time.
And the vice.
And the virgin.
And the veldt
And the verse.
By which I hold myself to account.

You are the Heavens when I reach for rain.
The chains that drag me from the earth.
You are the lot of what little remains.
And the glyph.
And the grave.
And the gate
And the gear.
By which I am driven to rebirth.

Your hair like fire upon the deck.
Your voice like piano keys.
Your eyes like sunlight in the boughs.
Your smile like frost upon the leaves.

You are the rapture of an open sky.
You are the honey and dew in my hands.
You are the roses that at Angel’s feet lie.
The burning.
The brave.
The driftwood on which my soul is saved.
The chaos.
The creek.
The wrath I’ve riven on the weak.
The serpent.
The song.
The dream and the dirge and the One.

Look at me, dear.
All black and no white.
But these things keep me up at night.
I hope you know, you know?
It was nothing so grand.
Just the taste of your breath.
And the touch of your hand.


From → Poetry

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