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Metatron

March 15, 2013

thirtyfive

I never quite overstepped your mark.
That fell just short of your shadow.
Too long and too dark.
Covering old ground.
How chilling your voice was.
All its bitter disappointment.
How close I’d come to you.
A stark admonishment about the glitter of gold.
A little too late, as a matter of course.
The blood in my gums is blood from the source.
Flowers that fly in the face of The Lord.
We wait for the things that don’t come on their own.
Chase for the feathers when the birds have all flown.
We talk about the cricket and we talk about the weather.
Choose our words carefully, for we both know their power.
You let yours get rusty.
Mine silver and mercenary.
It’s still my first memory.
I broke a pin across your back.
Perhaps this pen will end it.
I’ve always known you loved me.
I just wish you’d have said it.

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From → Poetry

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