Thursday, December 1, 2016


Speaking like nary a second has passed
But the truth is that all of them will
Drawing on sketches erased long ago
On a chalice once destined to spill
Coldest of hands with no fire in sight
And I’ve cited myself far too much
Somehow believing my fiction was fact
That my hand was entitled to touch
Promulgate all that you like, if you must
If it helps, you can label and list
Feel for the numbness at fingers’ small tips
But forget not the arm and the wrist
Follow the blood, where it travels, its journey
The path, and the fall from the slice
Hold on so dearly to that still inside you
With hands clenching ever so tight


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