Wednesday, March 1, 2017

CUT UP Poem 7

rusted into steel of his composure
are sores and warts glistening under a mirror sun
futile breezes whispering on wounds he inflicted
for others whom he claimed to heal

haunted by mortality’s ghosts he pleads
to dying gods of aims and bloodied swords
for a life worth memory among lasting maggots
in love’s tombstones made of bones

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