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Literature Text
The words that spin
a vast tapestry into space
and ache between minutes
of frozen eyes, slack hands.
Stitches sting blistered digits
from dawn until dawn again
without question or pause -
the gaze starts to bruise. From
where came such icy sweat?
No point in weeping.
Wrists click. This is a dance,
where a step wrong clears
the velvet floor.
Perhaps stolen sentences
steal into the evening:
if so, we are the lost.
But see the stars simmer,
the skin peels in the sun -
bless'd. Our hands are cold,
but the sky is clearing,
and there is no point in weeping.
No point at all.
a vast tapestry into space
and ache between minutes
of frozen eyes, slack hands.
Stitches sting blistered digits
from dawn until dawn again
without question or pause -
the gaze starts to bruise. From
where came such icy sweat?
No point in weeping.
Wrists click. This is a dance,
where a step wrong clears
the velvet floor.
Perhaps stolen sentences
steal into the evening:
if so, we are the lost.
But see the stars simmer,
the skin peels in the sun -
bless'd. Our hands are cold,
but the sky is clearing,
and there is no point in weeping.
No point at all.
Fwahhh, as my shadowe would say.
© 2010 - 2024 Underground-Rogue
Comments33
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Oh, wow. This is the grandest, loveliest ode to that curse of ours I've ever seen. It doesn't even begin to deserve this.