No more than a swoon
A kiss for its mad gather;
pivotal serpent
these adhesions climb
up the burning corpse
and into the murdering eyes:
an arid gaze

Cross legged,
not belonged to I
but all the same
beautiful burden
for your
wanting eyes

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twincities's picture

I thought this poem was sharp and dangerous. If the truth could cut you, this poem would be that knife. I enjoyed the read because the words come from every where, but they gather for their meaning and serve their purpose.

Moncies A. Franco