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Tears to Home

Updated on August 17, 2016

Half- stitched
and still bloodily swollen
is this Lance-shaped laceration
you buried in my flesh.

In broken beat,
blood gushed forth
i sweet ecstasy.
With a bitter facade dangling,
you followed in daze,
drowned in solitary pretense
and swore that last night
was just another ordinary nightmare.

But unblemished,
and unmarked
is the linen
where you once bled poetry;
where debris of forgotten oases
bloomed in cosmic moisture
and where lost angels
sung their harps the sweetest.

But no you thrive in this room now -
no verses,
no oases
no angels,
just lance-shaped lacerations
and a linen shrugged-off

But no tears will I shed,
and no regrets will I hold
for to where no verses rhyme,
to where no oases spring,
to where no angels hum.


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