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| a prologue to regrets; trumped |
when loud house
is quiet
and I can think,
reflecting past
off bleach-clean walls,
will I ache at corners
left vacant,
spaces gone,
devoid of occupation?
will you sit
in joyful places
recalling, replaying
pale memories
of coexistence
that cause my
far away tears to seep,
make heavy
the layers of fabrication?
the gathers that
fold and cinch my heart
in tight pleats
will pinch in the
out-grown curves
of your absence
like boxed baby clothes,
moth-eaten cotton
suffocation
would that these fibers
weakened with age
be gilded by guilt
trapped in shellac
ever preserving
the mistakes
that were made,
damages done
to five-fold creation?
but He will restore
what was consumed
in locust's green jaw
time-eater insects
cease flying
fall, fertilizing
the same land
once ravished
by infestation
future feared silence
should still have
bite
and empty rooms
where they once slept
bruise, but
wound will be
without puncture
or need for medication
when aged, matron hands
turn acid-free pages
of neglected scrapbook
Who,
but the Author,
will submit
a completed work
for edited
publication?
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Posted by paperlily on 2009-04-28 08:17:45 | Rating: | Views: 63
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