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bound to emptiness
he is a poet
and I, destitute in his mercy
make small unintelligible sounds
his tongue curls around
my syllables of breast and thigh
I leap into occasion
devoured of flesh,
he hides me from myself
and dissects my sentience with mathematical precision
there is a dark angel sleeping in my bed, his poetry
oppresses me, he taunts me with his touch
and his pen pinions me
he whispers: "fly with me"
Editing stage:
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Comments
Roscoe Lane
Thu, 2011-08-04 00:26
And off,
And off they flew if this is still about a personal side, it sounds marvellous. If not i stand corrected, either way i love this poem, short though full of action and everybody should have a dark side. Love Roscoe...
Roscoe Llane,
Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.