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Library Silence (Bride Burning, Soft Skin and Ambergris)

August 28, 2013

onehundred

I wrote a book.
I wonder.
Did it pass.
Entirely beneath your radar?
Did you have better things to do?
Than read the sour, mercurial ramblings.
The screaming, pleading petitions.
Of the way I felt for you.
When I knew exactly how it would be received.
If it was even read.
Futile fascinations.
That would fall on deaf ears.
If even perceived.
And could never raise ardour from the dead.
Each pathetic act of mesmerism.
Each drunken misdirection.
Each line and phrase and confession.
Was a stanza set to commemorate.
The beautiful stalagmites on your spine.
To wind a web between each notch.
To raise you up to see, yourself.
Through your eyes.
The way I see you.
Through mine.

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From → Poetry

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