Saturday, January 12, 2008

Poem I

Poetry is the past memorialized
It settles on memories like dust
That disturbed explodes into forms
That swirl in the light to settle again
Somewhere at the edge of perception.

What lies prone and coated
Camouflaged in gray skin
The undead leavings of shed birth
Obscured through stasis
And the quarantine of time
Packed away or discarded
A bit of rubbish that
Contained a banknote
Forgotten until bills are due
Forgotten but
For a lingering detail

Even innocent forms cast shadows
As familiarity breeds contempt
And demons are angels evolved
Into songs once known
Words spoken through glass

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