This

April 18, 2014 — Leave a comment

 

Words burst against

Words are not

Words are all you have and yet

Words are what you lost

What I lose against

 

This thing,

the words do not start

because they are not yet dead

like this thing, waiting, like her return

and his

 

Unborn or undead

Between, like always and again

this

 

And you are not this or were

not this until

this

 

What plays on the
what you are not good at

it begins, and rages

But is enough, and not
for what is left
and what remains

only and what

Were you saying I did not think I never but remember

This is not for thought

But for you what
is or could and might be
me

They return

And I am waiting

for this

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