Drink deep this echoing silence,
the winds that touch us no more,
the curses of dreams, remembered
upon waking and terrible.
Those things we have not been,
ghosts clinging like dried
sweat upon our skin, sounds
we still hear when the voices
that spoke them out into
gloom are long since gone.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
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Across Inconstant Breath
Would that this skin this frail armor atop the husk of slow departure - Would that it held against the teeth of night's maw a...
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(in honor of the apparently, partially visible periods I use to alter spacing) The suggestions of gravity ...... Are sometimes taken and... ...
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Prove this with your science, Hercules, you with your trials and madness, soaked in the blood of the vanquished. Prove this with your scienc...
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The shapes of animals move against her skin in the dim light, the forest reaching out to touch the essence, sick with need like I was then, ...
2 comments:
ghosts clinging like dried
sweat upon our skin
What an image!
A fascinating contemplation of "residues."
MB,
Thanks for coming over. Looks like a mighty tough dry spell at my comments windows. I'm glad that you liked the piece. I'm super busy right now, but I'll try to make it over to your site sometime this week.
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