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They glow, Like indigestion In the pit of the belly Perforating coals of After Thoughts, Just like this jagged Piece of you Smelling like Last night’s bon fire Still on my shirt Torn out like a page In your story Briefly reminiscent Of something bigger That the world Should like to hear Fading now Like broth in the stew, None of your shape Still there is a likeness Of you in every Sip of air So I breathe As echo The rain Has pressed Upon my arms And chilled these bones To shaking with the Hoary breaths Of resignation Always returning To these embers Hoping for The flame That once Held in the warmth Like bed time prayers, But, I should move along From these frost covered Stones. I should not question The way of mortality Or the paths it Excavates Through my meadows But this vigil By your embers Is my small protest Of endings The inordinate rudeness Of it’s tone And the barbaric Wailing In its execution Perhaps, It is also The only dirge I can sing When my voice Has been Strained by the fear Of being forgotten.
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May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
Whatever May Still Be Glowing
They glow, Like indigestion In the pit of the belly Perforating coals of After Thoughts, Just like this jagged Piece of you Smelling like Last night’s bon fire Still on my shirt Torn out like a page In your story Briefly reminiscent Of something bigger That the world Should like to hear Fading now Like broth in the stew, None of your shape Still there is a likeness Of you in every Sip of air So I breathe As echo The rain Has pressed Upon my arms And chilled these bones To shaking with the Hoary breaths Of resignation Always returning To these embers Hoping for The flame That once Held in the warmth Like bed time prayers, But, I should move along From these frost covered Stones. I should not question The way of mortality Or the paths it Excavates Through my meadows But this vigil By your embers Is my small protest Of endings The inordinate rudeness Of it’s tone And the barbaric Wailing In its execution Perhaps, It is also The only dirge I can sing When my voice Has been Strained by the fear Of being forgotten.
angela-turner
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May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
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