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Caul

April 7, 2013

fortyseven

You can, of course you can.
Welcome his death as hard as you desired his life.
The man is a portrait, a coffin beneath a wife.
You ran from his sickness, ran from the grand ground that constituted his hatred.
Of your leaving, created a man who had found destitution.
The reaving of sound in the song of a lover.
No more “made it”, no more “retribution”.
The funerary Gods who demand restitution.
A raw urn, tertiary to his brother.
Said he, “What if you leave me?”.
“In his arms, will you find another?”.
“In grief, the belief of your beauty?”.
Laying next to you in bed.
His gums drawing back from the teeth.
The cuticle from the nail.
You plead passion and ignorance.
But that ship’s long sailed.
He died with your name on his lips.

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From → Poetry

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