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January 31, 2016


Which is better, Little Flame?
To wonder, well.
Or wander, lame?
Fettered, maybe.
But happy in chains.
This is all it takes.
To drown the question out.
Without a thirst to slake.
This tongue will speak no tales.
This heart is not awake.
It sleeps amongst the whales.
I drank a glass of salt.
And all the boards did shrink.
But there’s dirty shirts.
Out in the hall.
And dishes in the sink.
It’s prison food.
For prison mouths.
But the beds are soft and good.
I still think of you.
When white kitchen tiles.
Are spoiled by clumsy blood.


From → Poetry

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