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March 11, 2013


The flesh has lost all meaning.
The constant bleeding belies the pin.
Its prick has all the seeming.
Of the rain on winter skin.
Streaming over closing eyes.
The same doubt this morning.
The same desires tonight.
The shameful splinter in my palm.
The things that we don’t talk about.

I’ve got a little river.
Running slow and running deep.
Run ragged, really, if I’m being bitter.
And I saw you on the bank.
As it ran right through my sleep.
You were drinking water from a cupped hand.
Light ran the river, down into a creek.
And I saw you in the stones.
Sinking in the water that wasn’t there.
I can’t fight for you anymore.
Silver sun lit the surface.
But there was a coldness in the deep.
And I felt it in my bones.

All the world’s a stage.
Wrote the master and the artist.
But that was of another age.
For now the world’s a market.
We sell skin instead of thoughts.
Burn wicker men for the harvest.
And I would never try to bluff.
That I don’t buy it with my blood.
But at least I most often try.
To build the things that I can’t buy.
I see it sparkle in her eye.
That cruel and golden glory.
Say this little prayer at night.
Before you sleep, “momento mori”.
In the eyes of every man.
Gold to pay the ferryman.


From → Poetry

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