Thursday, December 13, 2012

cold old overcoat

They keep alive these ancient faiths while sinking in this ache, the moon melted down like flavor. Burn the torch and light the candle. Blaze into the black. The choice where language loses purchase, expressed in fits and coughs, the jittering of pinched nerve as signals are sent aloft. Give away all these hope and bones, shared with no tomorrow.

The words blend with the sunset. The language escapes the the fetters of lines and letters. It slides between the world and all this want. The darkened hall, the drape of shadows. The seams and stitching that can never hold repair.

Again at last it is empty but for the hanger. Again at last the wear and tear. Cold fingers and open windows. The talk all gone, like lights so fast. The wall so brief and unforgiving. The weight so whole there is nothing left to lift.

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