because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

the downfall of the serial poet

he
skins soul and shins on
the sharp edge of a reality
in which he is
but a guest, where in one
drowning amber moment a
golden-skin-filtered finger brushes
hazily against un-
conscience: a heart
saying its
hands would kill
if they had the strength; instead
his thin wrists, tied
down to their bundle of bricks and
bruised dreams,
sink into spring’s
muddy riverbanks where
suddenly life is
existence
but not
existence
life.

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2 responses

  1. great stuff. i really enjoy this blog.

    April 13, 2010 at 3:35 pm

  2. spooky-sad and lovely

    April 13, 2010 at 4:07 pm

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