These soft stones you call stars
claw at ravens, underneath the skull of your irony.
We are not without our useful futilities -
That function as the only spiral
of our narrow chasm
yawning in the wicked mist that tingles in the nerve-dead breath, your charms are few -
well met and the hour has lost it's keening dread...
Where the hourglass slept -
Things are not the things we name things, alas
Our lexicon corrupts the numb jest -
the dumb joke that chokes the joy out of dominion
and bloats the vulture
till it simply
explodes.
You're next.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
These soft stones you call stars
claw at ravens, underneath the skull of your irony.
We are not without our useful futilities -
That function as the only spiral
of our narrow chasm
yawning in the wicked mist that tingles in the nerve-dead breath, your charms are few -
well met and the hour has lost it's keening dread...
Where the hourglass slept -
Things are not the things we name things, alas
Our lexicon corrupts the numb jest -
the dumb joke that chokes the joy out of dominion
and bloats the vulture
till it simply
explodes.
You're next.
Request permission to use this poem