Saturday, May 30, 2015

Collected poems

Collected poems

How pathetic must sound my poems
to those in the fire,

my quavering approach
to the precipice's edge;

words of love with no love there,
just a discussion, you know?

a hypothesis, no substance or fire,
no whispering endearments

but cold, analytic, sad chatter;
those in the fire in sympathy

long for my defeat,
collected poems, accumulated pages

torn and crushed, crumpled into a ball
and fed to the eagerly awaiting flames.

O child of God, don't let words withhold you
from becoming silent ash and dust.

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