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Seeds for the Seamstress

October 29, 2016

onehundredandfiftythree

You dreamt of living an aesthete’s life.
But you lived the dream of the fisherman’s wife.
Stalking storm clouds out at sea.
The feeding times, the tepid water.
The nursery rhymes of casual slaughter.
Were all the storm there’d ever be.
Jack and Jill.
Your sleeping pills.
The only source of fun.
Three blind mice.
Your laddered tights.
How the desperate run.
But there was no escape from what you’d done.
Pared by partum.
Put to pasture.
No concerto.
No old master.
Reared for Pollux.
Razed by Castor.
Faster fall not the fallow one.
The hallowed ground we’re grown upon.
Drives the misery ever on.
Life’s not weighed in blood and stock.
But the art of blood on stone.
Painting shadows whose source, forgot.
Are the only joy we’ve ever known.

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From → Poetry

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