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Ink

April 4, 2013

forty five

The end.
Borne from birth.
In life a warrior, by fate a poet.
On the rope, as it must.
In voice a God.
But never the master of it.

In the dead of the night.
I bled the black from the stone.
In agony, sewed my trembling fingers.
That they might be laced behind your back.

I sing too much of white whales and Angels.
I know.
But you are an Angel, truly.
Sing too much of this winter.
That has descended, like a shadow, across my days.

The leaves are used and fallen.
I made a promise to myself that when they fell.
When this was young and I was old before my time.
I’d drink something that I shouldn’t.
And drift and dream of you reading each line.
No more surrender, grim raven.
I will read it to whom it belongs.

No more.
I will fear you, no more.
I will miss you, no more.
I will love you, no more, in this sore and bitter way.
You are beauty and I will live in the light until you are mine.
Call me, and I will be by your side.
I will love you then and here and always.
Once upon a time.

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From → Poetry

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