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Tiger

June 24, 2013

eighty

I called you Red and I called you Rain.
Now only the requiem is left.
Only the bitter note remains.
Grapes growing rancid upon the vine.
The Eucharist of youth.
And the anesthesia of time.
Are now sad vaccinations that we take with our wine.
Love is a splinter.
All these things that we lose.
The darker the berry the sweeter the juice.

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From → Poetry

One Comment
  1. That was great. Vivid.

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