Moss

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  • Lost Love

    Moss

    You were an ocean before you burned your bridges dry
    I watched you carry ships on your back
    Till your nose sunk,
    swallowed mountains.

    Bones;
    you are spit,
    turning dust topside
    [words are just a patchwork of unceasingly frayed,
    Indirectly blunt desires]

    We head south but can't escape the cold
    Here's a sweater,
    Bulky, tight knit grandmother stripes
    wear it when you know who you've been.

    You're the rough waves I respire
    Transient shell I inhale
    Soft before you touch the jagged bottom.
    I've waded through your translucent body
    Like an empty tank
    Over and over

    We clapped hands but missed the point

    And wore our exoskeletons to the grave
    So our mouths would break against our skin
    Over and over
    Bellowing and rolling with the wind.

    Seagulls return to their garbage
    Picking scabs till they drown in bliss
    On the way down,
    they wonder
    how a rolling stone
    defies moss.

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    CellarDoor’s Poems (5)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    A Noise To Be 0
    Blind 0
    The silence 0
    Stain 0
    Moss 0