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Literature Text
Past the hours of midnight dreaming,
the sky reflects the orange glow
of street lamps keeping to themselves
while the traffic moves like steady rain.
And I am at my window,
my clock hits 4:19 and
I am lost in the morning,
staring down the city.
It's not that I hate the sun, but
I don't want to greet her today,
when the atmosphere is a cracked slate
and all my chalk is broken.
the sky reflects the orange glow
of street lamps keeping to themselves
while the traffic moves like steady rain.
And I am at my window,
my clock hits 4:19 and
I am lost in the morning,
staring down the city.
It's not that I hate the sun, but
I don't want to greet her today,
when the atmosphere is a cracked slate
and all my chalk is broken.
Literature
and even so, you stayed
I taste rain on your lips
and I know you’ve been
writing poetry again.
I breathe into the touch
of your fingers
cascading in a soft scale
down the cage of bones
around my heartbeat.
you kiss me
knowing
the colors that drift
in my mind
like water beneath
all the bridges that were
burned for me
and you stay.
Literature
sweaterse
when you've a love
in repose,
all quiets
are woven together.
all worries and
worships and
weathering
kept, cared,
covered.
every summer
warms, every winter
draws closer.
and the silences
sweeter than
heaven.
Literature
the greatest poem
The greatest poem I’ve never read is lying in a notebook somewhere, probably in Bangladesh, written in a language I can’t speak by a person I will never hear. I’ve never seen it nor heard of it because this person doesn’t know what they have and no one knows to dig where a mosaic is laid. And in the silent space that poem leaves I tremble. I ache, like an untouched woman. The greatest poem I’ve never written is lying in my heart right now, it's gatekeepers grief and shame. It’s there because of emotions I can’t give names for fear of unlocking too much and it all flowing out like a broken dam. You have never seen flood; you have not known storm. And in the silent space that poem leaves I cry. I bleed, from my fingers and from my palms. The greatest poem that never was must be in a dead man’s heart, or a woman’s, and I think of hiring grave robbers and a necromancer but the past is a torn sheet that can’t keep us warm. Although, some things can mend. I think I could revive this
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I just. Want. To sleep.
Comments20
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Wow, this spoke to me strongly! I've had times in my life when I couldn't sleep for health reasons and the world seemed like a clumsy sketch of itself. You nicely capture the myriad things we see at a time like that. Potent stuff!