Monday, October 17, 2011

062: Atlas

Paint your love red on the walls of my abode,
so the thin marrow may outgrow the bone;
I've lived so long in the shadow of the sky,
my wings tucked deep beneath dead skin,
waiting for one that fits my loneliness
to kindle the rush in my innards of rust.

Chained dearly to the mountain on my back,
made in the shape of every writhing thought,
I'm building an exquisite silhouette
for you to match, but I was always there -
self-portrait of pain, ease in distant deserts,
still kicking ego on the frozen slab.

Discard all judgement when the nails go through
and I'll find you shying inside my serpent clothes.

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