Poetry is War.
A duel of westward souls
Gnawing on bleached bone rhythms
Proclaiming a personal geometry.
Mundane murmurs of serotonin
Emerging from axial debris,
Cutting cold mementos of
Virtue, vice, and light.
A triat of muses on margin call
Jarring from "Muss es sein?"
I'm finished with drinking the sand.
No longer an
Of the cellar door enraptured
By ten digit lifelines or enthralled
By a bardic impulse.
But as the rhythm slows to shadow...
A bequeathing of an angel headed evening
On a Hollow sort of day.
1:17am | 8/6/2005
by Tim Bristol
Another poem that refused to let me rest until it was written.