Monday, November 17, 2008

What sorry excuse you are for a muse

Cringing, held his hands between my shoulders
My eyes seem to be near out of focus
Dripping into ear with sorried blunders
You are the scent of a springs plague: locusts
Fingerless joints, your hug didn't hold us
That of a father to unfostered twins
Our hours orchestrated full of fuss
As if someone new was birthed and sprung fins
Bond now composed of dusty narrow tins
We remember harmonies slightly off
Offered shelf to put everything unfin
Debate lines from stupid psalms while they scoff
Yet still fatherless, I remain turned true
Hopeful of your call and fevers from blue

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