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ghosts of our persuasion, no allegorical conclusion

If we could but hang around our coffins
like curious little misfits with a penchant
for hiding behind the curtain somewhere
over the rainbow
the prevailing myth of fantasy
would certainly be heard as the tree
falling in the forest no one hears

frankly speaking, the tree is dead.

Barks stripped of essential gentility, no passion
remains, no rage, no
beguiled forest to lose oneself in
nothing to be held back

the will-o'-the-wisp enters the shadowland,
head first, heart last

its beating now stilled, all anguish abated, the white oleander
now dying
its savage perfume permeating the profane miracle of its flesh & skin.

As long as memory remains, there will be someone to muse
about who comes and goes; there will be blood-red, ripe apples
and the pulp of our sins.

Editing stage: 

Comments

Sorry. Excellent.
This is probably my favorite of what of yours I have read. I enjoy it when you turn a phrase into itself and you do this often here.
Just a sharp, relevant piece.
wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Dearest Wes, I suppose if I live long enough and write enough poems......

Thank you.

~A

author comment

reading reading
words flowing
sitting slouched behind this screen
these bones with winter growls
gnawing like wolves
and this poem so fitting
dark and light
like the last of the waterlillies
at the threat of storm

Impressive!!

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