Sunday, November 15, 2009

What This is

What this is

Bereavement shaping whole skies

parted into fractures-

dawn, dusk,

somewhere in between,

we have seen hundreds of these as families-

time shifting sheets of time-

papers for days being bound by the universe-
books we don't know,

or haven't read,

don't care to read-

written about us.

Written about strangers we'll brush up against on subway trains-

eyes locking-

leaving time stamps in our pillowed enclaves,

the clouds storming-

we call brains'

That will flash like a slide show the moment before we expire.
Linguistics twisting around whole centuries,

we are the joke my friend-
No-one takes us seriously,

we are nude art,

stripped down raw to the veins, to be mulled over in some other era.
our words are ever fading and reappearing,

we are infinity against the sky and sea,

words over vellum paper-

burned to ash,
scorned language,

my lips forever tongue.
words written on stone and gold,

like brail for the soul.
These trees hiss and whisper in the black and white snap shots of time,

autumn bleeds the blood of great poets,

that were, or

that will never be.

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