Thursday, May 31, 2012

070: Learning

Years of insomnia
in stuffed plastic bags,
the crowded sewers
we walk in line,
a recurring dream
in black mirrors,
it shows I have a hard time
With backward feet,
half human,
a world of colors,
sinking in the red shift;
the distance
through the tunnels
of the day after
the fall,
documented so
on rotten terracotta.
The skin's already old,
mismatched seams,
you couldn't see it
and I couldn't spell it.
Arid are the dreams,
deserts in monochrome,
a recurring ritual
flashes it back,
It seems I have a hard time

The lake of my blood is heavy.
Father, I hope you are forgiving.