Even now, my own discontent is dead.
Not unlike everything else in my life.
I don't even enjoy singing anymore,
Much less this pointless bantering
Poems die.
People die.
Words do not retain their power
When unread and unspoken.
Feelings are lost.
Even this blatant
Slow
Rediculous
Scratch.
Hold.
Not unlike everything else in my life.
I don't even enjoy singing anymore,
Much less this pointless bantering
Poems die.
People die.
Words do not retain their power
When unread and unspoken.
Feelings are lost.
Even this blatant
Slow
Rediculous
Scratch.
Hold.
posted by dyingember at 2:58 PM
1 Comments:
bounty
in between yesterday and today
the lisp that drowns sorrow
by the bounty
curled its fingers
to the bright dawn
when magic failed to play its part
the awed density
broke the bough
summer began
without the mad clap
or the hungry fate
listening
ear to the ground
clamoring
to again
be a manifest
that reaches to and fro
the waves of uncertainty
a smell of licorice
and a tawny breeze
settles the sigh
silently a dress remains
in plastic
joy is suffered
the parlor is dusty
and cob webs weep
the moon is still glistening
against the words uttered
in solitude
nobody means to do anything
when it come down to it
yet somehow
the last stays last
and yesterday
whistles
to the broken box car
weeded rusted and ammonia
wrinkles of freedom
untouched by expectation
months away from burs of thistle
or staging for a Monarch
or a cat’s cradle
ah, May what do you speak of
out of tune pianos
turned over birds nests
drunken evenings ghosts
to peel off
and grazing of
temptations
running out to sea
© woundedlordliterature
May 3, 2007
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