June 3, 2012

poem 175 of a poem a day for 2012

She is the moment before the match strikes

I bleed for Her immolation
I need Her close by
my poem granaries are filled
Her millstones wait to grind me
to a seed velvet smooth
a stripped bone raw mineral bath
eating away at my sedentary apathy
my humanity in a Sisyphus tread mill
I run endlessly for answers
in the dead light canyons
of starry black nights
as Summer thins the dark
and I celebrate the purity
of Her burning all
the way through me


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