The Famished Asylum

You fell on me, with a knot and all eyes,

nothing more than the space

outside the quotidian argument,

uprooted and callow. You spoke

like a pendulum and I bit my lip.

 

I counted the years on my waist

at an angle from you – Sisyphus

drew breath, and my feet kicked the curriculum,

sharp. I am no more your absolution

than your vindication; you sip my perspective

like a sugared medicine,

and run,

 

to return, incongruous compliment,

for coherence,

playing your cards, starved,

and tilting the distant mind like a kitten’s paw.

A child is all that is implied.

 

Please; no more.

◄ The Art of Judas

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Comments

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Patricia and Stefan Wilde

Fri 25th Jun 2010 21:17

Absolutely fantastic! loved it-ta Marianne

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