April 12, 2011

When I am old and still the same inside.

I’ve buried you.

In the sands which washed us,

Fleeting. 

Too full of imagination. 

Closed in by water marks. 

Cut off what I can. 

To take this, solitude. 

You astonish me. 

In every place I’ve been, 

I’ve buried you. 

This, heroic act, 

The denouement of Achilles. 

The sting of rain, 

Embittered and recreated by the

Fingers of the violinist. 

You return, 

Rest in my shaking hands. 

These hands that cannot draw. 


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