Friday, May 17, 2013

Out of dashed hope

Vacant, pungent,
stained and sweaty,
flailed wish and purpose,
aimless winged days winging

something rich with vigor
survives the cleaning up.

Some thing green and growing,
hardier than the decomposing
dream long since bled
out to dry,

and to dust.
Too long and too slow,
shuffling fate retains
a pulse,

sightless, intransigent pulse,
bizarre oasis
on a featureless plain,
the beating heart

invents, again,
what the mind forgets
or never knew.
It would be something

fierce, resurgent,
damp and earthy,
the beautiful face,
another sweet roar coming.

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