The walls can now hear you speak,
words (even whispers) are twisted legalities.
fingers are bitten down to the bone...
WHITE MARROW, to be consumed by the man,
the man who always wins--
In his shroud of black
(red and white and blue)
He hides behind the plasters,
(in the creases of the mind)
waiting with his crooked eyes
You fear him.
But when he’s come, remember:
You have the silence to remain right,
Surely you’re no longer speaking?
Sunday, October 3, 2010
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I like the use of enjambment in all your poetry.
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