Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Selected Works II

Nine (Incidental)
Her smell is stuck to my sheets.
There is a mess that she left in my room,
And there are lights that she left on.

The marks from her spine are on my covers.
There is the scent of her product on my pillow;
It's from the way that she laid there.

Her heart still beats under the floor.
There is still my blood on the walls.
She forgets to say goodbye.

The Ides of July
A friend near to me sleeps on a knife;
He keeps me within an arm's length.
His face relaxed in an utter loss of strife;
None could know if he would have the strength.

For soon will be the morning of the Ides of July.
In a blindness of the devotion that is around,
The notches in my back will become awry.
He can be under the crown.

Judges, Sixteen
She drags a smile across her face as she breaks every bone purposefully.
My firm resolution is to linger in consciousness without a fight.
A razor scrapes across my scalp, so goes the last of my might.

Eulogy describes all that's next; my incrimination flows uneventfully.
Words draw themselves from me without any intention.
My hands are painting the antagonist with immodest affection.
Russet eyes watch a man unafraid, a sense of completeness. 
Under the weighted blade, I taste my smile's sweetness.
Gone are the walls and the deceit; my loyalty unswayed.

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