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Dark settles on the walls, the street lamp blinks light,
dies, then blinks again. A moth- stuck inside the room-
pares its wings on the glass, falls to the windowsill,
then does it again. My eyelids do the same.    

I imagine his mouth; the ghosts under  
his tongue slide through the cracks of his teeth,  
find mine, stay there. And the birds at the  
backs of our eyes drink too much to leave.    

He told me there's a life of everything, somewhere  
else; one that isn't made of feathers or concrete.  
I'd be the flayed moth that made it through the glass,  
He, the sun, and my guts would be warm under him.  

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 


halos of rust
round a water rimmed tub
thirsty as dusk

I like this poem
rather different
a harsh lyrical

the last line especially
I very much admire
raw beyond the raw


thank you!!

Thank you for the thoughtful words. Appreciated!


author comment

Oh, I like this very much! Lovely, strong poem. Thank you


Appreciate your passing through :)
Thank you.

author comment

Violets emerge
in brilliance
once again


Good strong writing here with images that form excellent

Let your mercy spill on all these burning hearts in hell(Leonard Cohen)

I will bring this one up to the top again as it is worth for others to read, loved it.
Yours Ian.T

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

Thanks Ian for bringing this poem back in stream. I don't know how I had missed this one. It is really a pleasure reading it.

Nice exquisite poem Violet.


raj (sublime_ocean)

nice to see this reposted...perfect for this spring storm and full of
wind and mystery...

" he, my sun..."

i had to write guttural about eight times to get spell check to pass it
from its red reject....but i kept at doing this more although
i despise punctuation

i will study this passion for this flaw and find it somewhere
in my wanderings with the dog..or at work..on the bus..mid-stride
to get a coffee from the black shirted workers at the cafe...
part timers working through college....very dainty and beautiful..
folding laundry or pulled from sleep to get on the roll...
fan idling air like a waiting aircraft on the tarmac...

words...and people that can juggle them.....balance them
or slop them out like a jasper johnson on canvasse
if i even got that name right....

im liking your word use.....because you use your poetry
like i try to use lighting in my photography
the idea is to build that three dimension
like a minature
or a granduer illusion

like my discovery of the word Etaite meaning the whole
illusion of the same but many different.....

i was having a fit of madness post christmas
and finding french cinema from the twenties
a film called "starfish" brought forth an illumination
of creativity for me
which of course led me back to fritz lang.
blah blah blah

ignore me...its been a long and interesting day..

thank you.

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