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June 4, 2013


You’ve got that haunted look about you.
And I’m on it like a cancer.
That look that I adore.
Soft as cotton, sharp as thorns.
One glance and you’re licking my wounds.
Let it linger a little too long.
And you’re licking the blood from my fingers.
But I’m too tired to pull away.
Too tired for so much these days.

There’s a black stone in my left hand.
And a white stone in my right.
I take them with me, always, out into the night.
Come home with them in my pockets.
The beauty of the void.
The gentle caress of chaos.
The poetry of nothing and zero and nada.
But its poetry’s running thin.
I’m afraid all the time.
Just like you.
And I’m too tired to raise my hands.
Just like you.
We’re friends and I can trust you with these things.
The jokes that keep the strange sun in the sky.
The laughter that keeps the desert dry.
You and I.
Nameless King and Queen of the world.
Happy, shy and on the brink of tears.
I held your hand.
I’ll be your child, you be mine.
Blind to the past and safe in the light.
This oil that blights the page.
Is nothing.
By the fire of your name.
I love you.
I will die with your voice in each beat of my heart.
Poetry is a dying art.


From → Poetry

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