Monday, October 31, 2011

063: Teethgrinding in Heaven

A miniature coffin laid down,
without a sound
from the stonefaced crowd
steering 'round the cenotaph.
More woman than child
and less child than that
weathered avatar.
Where undirected tides go,
beneath a hungry moon,
from a soil dewed in tears,
flowers bloom of rot
in delightful creation.
Imperfect angel descent
from the stars gazing back,
we come together
and I shudder to think
I'd choke on a mouthful
of your innocence.
Human dirt still tastes sweet,
like the growing pains
of a world suspended
in the instant of our lives.
An alchemical balance frame,
which way do we go from here,
maybe the rising will tell.
Purge.
Repeat.

1 comment:

  1. in our insignificance we extract importance and it goes to show it went before we lost it.

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