Wednesday, April 07, 2010

Wasps and Clocks.

In tales of old worlds, we are strong and relentless-
A chord that struck the heart.
The worm is made from flesh and flesh is spoken
From strings like balloons. In the old death,

My heart is made from corn melted from flesh-
The words are spoken in tales spun from old
The hearts beat like gilded black wings.

A cloud of angry wasps.
A tourniquet that is spun from old dials.
We hear the world, the whispers of words;
Our eyes lock, and the bell bangs twice.

I am waiting, forever waiting.
Sentinels bleak and relentless.
Follow sad rhymes, ancient as anything.
We creep across the marsh of old hands.
I can’t do anything.
I can’t say anything.
We locked eyes and couldn’t find anything hidden
In the shadows,
The shadows marched from strands of wool.

This is not the age of redemption.
This is not the age of old worlds.
Crossed out, we move on-
Old ghosts are hung from silver doors.

The windows are spoken of anything,
Anything is derived from flesh.
You told me we wouldn’t go back.
You told me you were tossing and turning
In your bed,

That your tears were not fresh and burning.
The wildflowers burned.

Everything was burning from shadows and
Spots of shadows.
I looked at the sky and a rainbow appeared,
Stark and naked and full of wings.
The grace was not in anything.

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