deepundergroundpoetry.com
Walker
It astounds;
emitting from the quiet hills
And I know
I am not ready,
In the grassy marsh,
I sense your elegance following me
Your frail spine, still lingering in
the wooden framework of my opened door.
Walking here has always burned me,
On occasion I wander past your foolish name,
Questions spill like pennies from my mind
morphed into some wishing filled trough.
In the waters I can feel your thirst drowning me
Sun-flowered and soothing like a beating heart,
Our infections together become sweet clever disguises
This open wound where only pain will muddle
The taste is life metallic
Our prayers from the grave
The final sentence weeping
as we leave here riddled.
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