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Better this Way

My eyes had stung when the clock said twelve,
double dagger that killed the day.
I thought, when I was nearly asleep-
perhaps closer to dream than I knew,
It would be all right
It had all been a dream.

The world will be different in the morning
after rain, after last of winter's cold
after we covered the miles
made turns, nearly run out of gas,
We will be in a different place.
If not beyond, at least far away.

So if I woke haggard and tasting ash
Your sister phoning me for an eulogy
If I broke the mirror and my hand
If I could not eat breakfast because of guilt
the splinter lodged deep in my chest
strangled my breath, it was all a dream.

I'm going to a city and write you letters
knowing you, forgiving, goes globe-trotting
busking for a living, eyes startling fierce
cheeks flushed, and breaths white in the cold
thinking me a fool for living so carefully.
I am here, you are not here merely because
I left you behind.

The conscious shape reality.

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The following comments are for "Better this Way"
by Furius

Death and dreamtime
There’s huge skill in the way this poem conveys the queasy, disbelieving bemusement of bereavement. Or so I sensed... though I'm sure I understand it only poorly. The increasingly random pick'n'mix of tenses and choppy grammar made it a bit hard to read. Is this part of the scheme? If so, I'd be interested to hear why. Either way, the poem got me: liked the way it moved, liked the way it felt.

( Posted by: MobiusSoul [Member] On: November 6, 2005 )

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