Wednesday, May 13, 2009

004: Ode to error

October shower in May,
a quaint natural echo
to the gravitational pull
of a brewing comedown,
for the historic quandary discards
the scribblings of fools,
leaving a palimpsest of lesions
on ragged shoulders
locked in restless vigil.
I seek a virtual North
following a delusive compass
that only shows the Nadir,
storming inner reaches for an obole
to bribe the drunken helmsman.
The words I loathe to say,
pounding their syllables on my door,
no golden thread available
to sew their lips silent,
a mobster's offer, this bitter cup.

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