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Rust

October 17, 2015

onehundredandthirtyeight

I can die alone.
Bones and dust.
Be my priest.
Mass.
And dearly beloved.
You can pray for it.
If you must.
Not so far removed.
From my own prayers.
On the cusp of sleep.
Dreams for graveyards in the deep.
Skyscrapers softened in saltwater steep.
The world turned to ice.
Jaundiced ivory.
Scattered dice.
A surgeon’s smile.
Rust in the joints.
Rust on the knife.
The tiny, ticking parts.
Of guilty little boys.
Who will never meet your eye.
Whose shame will never be seen.
Watches stopped at 8:15.
This is the time it’s always been.
Man’s life is a game.
The only way.
To conquer the fates.
Settle the odds.
And win.
Is never to play.

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From → Poetry

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