July 10, 2012

poem 228 of a poem a day for 2012

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


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