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Ridgewood, New York, United States

Monday, September 19, 2011

death of a flower

the death of a flower is a path
crushed underfoot
leaves and grass
and crushing still packed fresh snow

I suppose the death of a flower would illumine,
outlast the darker anguish of living so close without its bloom.

Shaking leaves
and running waters
scorched earth
scarlet crimson

will within
when the poet walks amidst the fields of flower's dust
the death of a flower is a path to trace and wonder all at once
what gold gods we may become in slumber
what golden mermaids lie beneath the lust

So broken as to hide away from the light
so broken as to fall into a depth
to mine the word for shattered flowers
at once rebuild in tiny pieces what was fallen whole from the sky

Quick and dead are all that rest beyond pearled gates
behind the cross of choice we choose to follow
the tinman's grace without beet muscle
metal machines speaking in code

(I hide, I choke, I run)

I follow the tail of one too many mystic comets
imagining in them the sun

God's do welcome me in with gold dust wings
 I am bonded strength
enraptured light
forgotten traces of your wildness
delight in the flower
it will be erased
it will be devoured

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