Wednesday, March 20, 2013

The Terminal Post

I don't write anymore
Not to some casual eyes
Who would go through my beads
Of charmed prayers
And the holy smoke of thoughts,
Only with his sight.

Tell me, if you care
And only if you do,
I will write
And write just for you
A pair of glad eyes
And a mind that thinks
And dares to dream beyond the
Muddy and earthy things.

But of course you are caught
Between pairs of handsome legs
And skin of volatile
Youth and tenderness.
And clothes, purses, rings
Shirts, bedrooms, flings
And buses full of bodies
Swarming in sweat.

I have stopped writing
I pray quietly in my head
For you and all those there
Who believe in drops of woe.

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