Thursday, March 1, 2018

The Turntable

Touch and torn,
the call out,
that passing crack
of pepper,
and breathed up deep
and hollowing,
much too late to
quell the remorse.

We were born of beauty,
of timeless,
and given those
at once boundless
the shoes,
those wings,
the bleed of love
without promise 
of rings.

A dollop of time,
she cried,
she smiled,
wild berries boiled into
eyes that age,
yet see only
the youthful

It was you,
you know.
It was me.
And across this field,
these streets
and under the rusted
shoulder bones
of a weezing city night,
in one small mind,
only the good,
the right,
plays on the turntable

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