Burn this before they find us.

 


Midnight, and we’re still here
in the privacy of our own
raised palms. Please forgive
me my mourning glories
and my wilted wile. I am
weary of these hands, the
lands they cannot reach,
the lives they cannot save.

We are inklings of dust,
embers lost to the breeze.
We are keepers of light under
cold bushels. We have stum
-bled upon the sun, and
wished it sane. Held back.
Put some in our pockets
for all this broken black.

..
In November, we poem. Even when we’re too busy. Even when we don’t really wanna. 

 

 

 

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4 Responses to Burn this before they find us.

  1. qbit says:

    We have stum
-bled upon the sun, and
wished it sane – fantastic.

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