May 25, 2014

Pearls or swine

Is it my turn
To compose soft words at daybreak
With hand flourishes that compete with morning birds
To tell stories of the night before
Of days forfeited
And what it means to be “on the mend”

Shall I?
Keep my regal shoulders dignified
In this longest check-out line of
Paying dearly for what you’ve got
Like molasses, emptiness is slow, and thick
And catatonic, and quiet

Is it my turn
To be quiet in the face of the past
So beautifully completed
Free of debt
Its own dignified cenotaph
Pretty to think so

Is it my turn
To count the anomalies that came before
To be wide-eyed
In the face of this entropy of which came first
Sitting in the eye of a most undesired storm
Of spread and swiped human dearth
Dripping from dirty wings
Running out of absence.


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