Tuesday, December 23, 2014

birthday song, for dorothea

with dreams of metal towers
and of static, dreams of silver skies
and then waking up

the here and now is a fist
and so the future can only be
whatever pain comes next

i have no other truths

have only one hand that holds and
the other that pushes away

have only scar tissue and
empty ideals and with the music

up loud enough the sun
makes no sound at all

the baby sleeps beneath
the shadows of passing clouds

wakes up crying softly
just as the air runs out

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