We, as poets
we fear the tangible
our fingers have lost the ability to
touch, to
feel
from
nights spent clutching our pens
from
unclenching our fists
from
peeling our
fingertips away from the ones we cannot afford to lose.
From pressing the familiar lines of our
palms together while looking
up past the cracked ceiling
up past the cloud that Darius calls
God
We, as poets, do not believe in a
heaven, for
Purgatory
is so sweet
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 12:05 PM UTC
We, as poets
we fear the tangible
our fingers have lost the ability to
touch, to
feel
from
nights spent clutching our pens
from
unclenching our fists
from
peeling our
fingertips away from the ones we cannot afford to lose.
From pressing the familiar lines of our
palms together while looking
up past the cracked ceiling
up past the cloud that Darius calls
God
We, as poets, do not believe in a
heaven, for
Purgatory
is so sweet
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