speed
dialing my manic depression
in
sandcastle wets
I
get the cord blood
and
splatter it
within
the circled salt
finding
no fault
but
my own
when
I do not try
to
venture my will into spirit
when
I cannot bare my throat
to
scry the passages
when
I haven’t the courage
to
crawl along the velvet doors
truffling
my nose
into
the hidden mores
that
are vined with sorrows
to
find that all of us
are
waiting in scented
runes
of memory
with
a dictionary
of
blank pages
EJR
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