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July 2, 2016


In that black room.
In London.
Where swirling light.
And ruin.
Were fabled worship.
Of the tribes at the gate.
I’ve waited.

Where fire fell.
On marble skin.
And all.
Was in.
Sewn and sworn.
And torn to shreds.
I’ve taken the needle.
And drawn the threads.

But you’re not the girl.
That I recall.
Built from bones.
And dusted wings.
The murderous footsteps.
In the hall.
The frosted pane.
The coffee rings.

For upon frozen heath, amongst the briar.
The tribes have lit their godless fire.


From → Poetry

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