Theory Holds Water

Here at my window where the new world holds sway
Meagre food threads ache on the cusp of my day
Here where the future has become a fag end
Burnt knuckle yellow dead letters un-penned

Groundwater looms in the crook of the night
Rising without wings without death’s appetite
Rushes its run through the streets of my dreams
Stitches to render from these foolhardy schemes

Here where I wrap your bones in sweet flowers
Gravity’s low hopes now rotting fruit hours
Here where I sentence these strings of words free
Shake the world silent they fall from dead trees

My heart rendered cruel in a coal black estate
Windmills that vane the cold night’s old debate
Whirling the skyline despite the vain cries
Of the nearly dead idiot-voiced lords of the flies

Here at desk of the real estate moon
Waxing gibbous candle waning too soon
Here where the last of my tears now break ranks
Trapped voices freed from green dolphin tanks

November 2009

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