Your promise
Of an unbearded moon,
My demographer’s map...
Pock marks in your soul
And love in my fist.
The lamp’s golden gate, the sky
Weeping prisoner’s tears
Smeared with dead men’s bones.
I look into your eyes
I curse myself yet again.
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2 comments:
i love this one... well except for the last line may be. there's just something in there that does not fit, at least so i think. may be too prosaic, may be too pessimistic, or may be it simply does not conjure an image at all... and if it does, it is not an image that fits with the rest. but that's just my feedback.
the rest put together form a great piece though. kudos!
@ kama....
its meant as bathos..... which is why it kind of stands apart i guess.....
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