Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Flake the Aging Correspondence

flakes the aging correspondence
rivers flow, made saintly
as music pulses through
the walls, once laughter
heartache, now melody

In this space where all awakens, 
in the distance, sunlight
on the window, curses
on my tongue, bitter tasting

for I, a jilted wanderer
am clean, for now, but
prone to relapse, into
filth and apocalypse, the
currency of night

when shifting eyers make 
nightmares of shapes once
so familiar, when steps
must be counted and trails
marked before the coming

yet hardline condensation
forthcoming with the dawn
settles into bone and sinew
and wipes me clean again

for now

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