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Out

and when dances turn to war cries,
when the bare feet bear the brunt of the soul,
when hours make ashes of the spirit,
when there's no fucking quiet
in the disquiet of the inevitable,
when everything is known
to be a looping of the loop,
that loops her way around the throat
and sinks us all under,
you can take that specialness
and reveal those blissful Kings
to be a comparison of our misery.
You can pluck me
until I'm unsteadying the moon,
loose and mountainous and grey,
the chaos of insides
all awake now.
It was a momentary merriness
pain lingering under flesh,
as it does, a medicine for the mind.
So don't speak truths,
and don't look
at the shattering
that takes on many forms,
some may be fire,
others are rooted, rotting and stiff.
I don't intend to indulge my madness
anymore than red spiders around the base
or that newness that turned black
then blue, then white - all white.
I can taste orange,
the organless hue.
I can taste the morning
after mourning.
To stay in this day,
locked to this tree,
spine on spine
on bark, barking,
haunted by a reason to stay,
that'd be enough
just for now.
ImperfectedStone
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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