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A stab in the dark 9




9

Deeds cringe at dark wood’s end,
slither and die over leafy lips.
He hesitates, although this particular crossing
is of no value,
nevertheless, there are phantoms
in any conscious effort.

It is here he meets what is
without lazy cloaks of misrepresentation,
here where a hazy tell tale custom
casts spells over things.

Never before has he been fraught
with a rendezvous of this kind,
binding all his split second perception
into a sole moment of here,
akin for no other touch.

Scavenging scholars of grey intent
bleed across pillared temples,
dusty images of what might have been
are purple words alone,
an arrangement of flowers perhaps.

The element of understanding
has to do with white keys and clouds,
the state of origin, birthed mortals
need to breathe
where wild is a bird.

A stoic impudence is laudable
in nights of no further ado.
Tall nights bear neither snow nor rain,
someone plays the piano.

Voices float like white banks of clouds
over any further objection.

I do believe in the sound of words,
the spoken, the impossible,
the mad glimpses of belonging,
the electric flashes
between my bedroom poles,
the taut wood of cerulean skin
with the moon shifting below.

The wind is the air you shift
as intentions move you
– highways and wasteland –
not even you can collect.

Slow is the purpose
that follows maps of old,
steeped in ways of wings,
intense, bold leaps
over the old lane of sense.




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Läst 386 gånger
Publicerad 2011-09-14 16:04

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