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Literature Text
You are gone
but I remain
alone and mourning
impotent.
I would devour the earth
I would drink the seas dry
I would burn the sky
and boil all human tears to nothing
I would put out the stars
I would spit on the sun
and salt my wounded eyes
to touch your hand once more.
But I am a servant
the lowest
a child of dust
with no power to touch the sky.
So I will touch my heart instead
and since you cannot come back to me,
I will go to you, my hope
touch my heart and still it,
and I will come to you.
but I remain
alone and mourning
impotent.
I would devour the earth
I would drink the seas dry
I would burn the sky
and boil all human tears to nothing
I would put out the stars
I would spit on the sun
and salt my wounded eyes
to touch your hand once more.
But I am a servant
the lowest
a child of dust
with no power to touch the sky.
So I will touch my heart instead
and since you cannot come back to me,
I will go to you, my hope
touch my heart and still it,
and I will come to you.
Literature
Sacrifice
For fifteen dollars
you can buy a book
with a gloss cover
from Barnes & Noble
on conjuring demons.
There's all this
preparation.
Drawing a circle
with silver and salt,
a bit of blood
a sprig of rosemary,
maybe some magic words
and, like all things,
if you do not tremble
then you do not believe.
Then comes the
need for
an impossible sacrifice.
A human
built for humanity.
To be honest,
I've found it's easier
to summon the devil
by yelling out my window
at one in the morning.
Literature
The Snake
A
speck
of stardust
lands upon
her brow;
altered
as a snake
with a head
of diamond
demanding
that I bow.
She slithers
in my mind,
breaking
through
the gates
of my
unmountable
fortress
of reason.
Shouting
war cries
as a knight
illuminating a
treasure hunt
in the cloudfull
starless night.
And wherever
she glides,
the air
vibrates in
a hue of
black and blue;
leaving b
Literature
The Painter And The Veteran
He wanted to pull out the pain
with a syringe, as if it were
black jelly that had accumulated
underneath his skin. This was
how morning welcomed him.
***
On saturday nights, he was
the kind of man who went around town
painting murals with a can. They
were gorgeous, especially when city
employees melted them with hose-water.
***
In America you can find dollar bills
stuck deep in the cracks between
sidewalks; you can find people stuck
deep in the cracks between
buildings too.
***
You can also find people inside
said buildings, inside beds,
inside...
***
One
and only one
night, the painter was approached
by a hairy young
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If you're still waiting for me.
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Comments30
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I understand the sentiment. Beautiful poem!