Thursday, November 5, 2009

Every Time in the Telling

Everything is shaded through your blood
filtered slow and cold
for the drinking,
a fermented cup of dreams and waste
and a chorus in the undertow.

The marks you left
will be until the end
the beat of a heart
stuttered slow and slowing.

It never goes away
the haunted vision of you
that pushes me towards the edge,
a fool and child
too young to know
and older every time
in the telling.

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