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March 19, 2013


Every line I write is of your name.
It’s there, though I sing of your blood and your hair.
You’ll blame me, of course, that I don’t dare sing to your face.
Shame me, of course, that I laid it so bare.
I have to believe, of course, that you still even care.
Deceive myself daily; there’s no chance that you don’t.
Lately, I wonder, if I’ll ever find out.

When you’re somewhere stranded behind drifts of snow.
Armies in rank, staring dead eyed at the valley below.
The rift that’s been growing.
Shows no sign of slowing.
Mine is the war drum and yours is the standard.
Blowing in a gale as cold as a crypt.
It’s throwing my voice up and over the bank.
Tumbling away, a long-shot arrow in flight.
To steal or to starve
To beg or to borrow.
To speak it and ruin tonight.
Or spare it and ruin tomorrow.
I choose to write it, of course.
And sully its beauty with my mute, raw remorse.
Crumbling, hung over and trying to force.
Its sound into verse that you’ll nurse all my sorrow.

What woman wouldn’t want a pre-broken man?
What girl doesn’t love a stumbling hand?
This is my problem, I’m always the poet.
Your name is her name is your name and you know it


From → Poetry

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