Sharing
By PoppyS
- 625 reads
I watch as the candles cry
themselves cold
stare out the oil lamp - until it burns dry
at the heart of all this ridiculous, beats
the sublime.
Me just a simple follower of the flock
loving you
always addicted to your addictions
in all their unpalatable truths
disciplined in all of your art forms.
White suffused with red, a smear by any
other would simply be pink.
Extracting sound bites
the shadows of life - fast forwarding on the replay dial.
Distant on some calling bay
the tide long since ebbed.
In raindrops rare - a city glows
as I in silence lie about my bed
bleached sun-kissed roots anchor
the rawness of this canker.
Last night I did not play with sleep
instead, I fell into this madness of sharing
what is mine?
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Comments
Crying candles. I like that
Crying candles. I like that image a lot. I like the idea of being one of the flock, as we all are for something/someone. There are tunes that I sometimes can't get enough of and am driven to distraction. I spent a long time the other night trying to remember the word "insomnia". Lots to read in this piece.
Parson Thru
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