Sunday, February 14, 2010

some strange crimson marketplace,
a cosmic ballet-
yesterday's silencing heartbeat
morphed into a graveyard of the apex of steeples
where a single pulsing
under a crevice of fabricated directions, written on the tips of fingers
promised an eternal deliverance to the rings
that surround our quiet sphere
of still moving awakening,
a life,
beckoning to be found
lodged under
a darkness in ancient libraries,
an unresponsive brother,
or the glittering snowtides of the atlantic in february;
now be not afraid, little bee,
for a restoration seeps between your pores
and a lullaby
sung in several languages, simultaneously
will soothe a disquieted mind, as the giant
above our heads
steals momentous blocks of stone from our atmosphere
he sits, but holds tight
to sliced objects which could have possibly
created our interior to be
a deafening demonic force, to which it was originally hoped to be
before a fire,
before a fire fell.

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