lonely regents in the tar lands of the body. toil their spells and coax their magics from heavy stones and gaping winds. holds the hour fierce with tremors of fallen kings. the void is sharp. the ink ours. the edge is lost.
only the cruel gods remember our names when we weep upon the shore. the fist of the moon in our throats. the heel of the sun dug deep in our thighs. stripped of voice. robbed of run. soft corks swallowed by the hungry mouth of time.
the end presses premature. clanking fists at the feeble gate. beauttiful seers robbed of their eyes. swift kings flee. while slow peasants die.
broken colors spill the hues. empty songs left behind. the last of her wars. the first of her lies. the simple thieves. lovers and friends. the great artists. enemies and allies.
the walls rot. the windows crack. everything is gone. except choice.
Friday
3/22/2013 12:29:00 AM
| Life Poems |