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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Phoenix Poetry

Submitted: January 22, 2017

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Submitted: January 22, 2017



All senses have been sharpened into arrows,

Slashed into shards by a fresh reality

The fragile fist bleeds into the wind as rain

And arises the mist.


Pores are drilled and purified as faces tighten,

Stretched by lacking resources of the leaking mind

Or is it the ignorance of thick, drying eyes

Made a freckle by the sun?


Though your reflection is slit and shaped as you read,

The paper inked in dashes of blood, your throat sore and inflated

By crystaline shards of pumping glass, you cough in withering intention

Spreading shining souls across the deck.


My fingers are stung by the mind shrouded in nettles and thorns,

Glued to the melting heart that dresses a mothers worry

For the scales are burning and the debt is weighed

All clocks blink in isolation.


Blackened and pruned, the tongue relapses into the sea

As the hammers match the fingers as stumps, nails latch onto eternity

Stones roll as wasted words dry, irony is embroided in natures tusks

All crosses are out of luck.


Stitches paint the face of a child, blind to a gun

And yet again are my efforts a breathing skull

Shivers waste give breath to the wind and faith to the buried,

Characterised by thundering rebuke.


My poetry is a hologram in shards,

As is the space inbetween,

Porjecting the final picture through dust 

Onto you and all.


I am constant.

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