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The Poetic Cycle

It started out as a drip

and then it became a faucet

and then it became a leak

then finally, a sewer,

then finally, a lake.

 

I found your net it was

right by mine

where we left them wet

I soaked my head in gasoline

and set fire to the house I

never looked back

to see if you were surprised

 

I felt the bark under my new hand

and I felt the trees stop growing

acres of wasteland denied

 

Cleaning out the drains I had

fingers under my skin

that the world saw but I didn’t

 

Hope is water on the floor

a cup filled with glass

a vessel in itself

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Written by
s-a-knight-1
American
Published
Jul 5, 2011
Lines·Words
21·113
Permission

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