Aug 312011

Build the storm-brought wood till its right to burn
--A civilization, an amended word;
Completion and destruction turn
A dead-end rhyme as mated words.

The long matchstick cracks, a broken finger,
A wail to salt the self-subsuming wood;
--As if no injury could make ginger
Our conscience to aid the good.

I know myself, and play my hand
Shadowless in the flame and briny fire
Until a new pink hurt like stinging sand
Bids hand withdraw, and I perspire. 

Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.