the rest of the lights before you
slid into erasures. we have become
everything the city is in its precocity;
from the wind that gallops, the dog
howling into a crossfade, even underneath
the already dead lampposts that give
in to the velocity of such departure,
a divisible line. a border I cannot cross.
I dip my body into the thick dark
and become bendable light through
the crevice of doors. the gnawing silence,
your leitmotif. something the wind is still
all beautiful things passing and I become
nothing more but a dank memory in the muck
of forgetting – whatever it was, that I conversed with,
stars their dereliction, all across the flagrant void,
I am beating with more life than ever,
dancing around your leftover moon.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC
the rest of the lights before you
slid into erasures. we have become
everything the city is in its precocity;
from the wind that gallops, the dog
howling into a crossfade, even underneath
the already dead lampposts that give
in to the velocity of such departure,
a divisible line. a border I cannot cross.
I dip my body into the thick dark
and become bendable light through
the crevice of doors. the gnawing silence,
your leitmotif. something the wind is still
all beautiful things passing and I become
nothing more but a dank memory in the muck
of forgetting – whatever it was, that I conversed with,
stars their dereliction, all across the flagrant void,
I am beating with more life than ever,
dancing around your leftover moon.
Request permission to use this poem