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The oaks touch
the august, dappled sky
out the master-bedroom windows,
and the white French doors
turn on
the smoothest hinge

the lilacs dangle abundantly
in a deep, royal purple,
the snap-dragons curl
and the artichokes frost verdantly...

but my heart
it beats and blossoms
in a darker, soul-sick sable
and years of oppressed misadventure
have left me misshapen and numb
and as wolfish as man-like

the world's stage no longer
concerns me,
seeming but a tangled cluster
of passe pretensions, crass catch-22s,
and garden-variety perversions...

opiated in the twilight hours
I pray for Pluto's passage,
and yet this too solid flesh
neither crumples nor avails
but sags and leans,
yet cane-clasping stands
like week old-bread...

how much better
to be remembered and honored
among the buried, rited dead...
than to with pathos
pass the hours
a monster...
with chess-boards, poems, and prostitutes
sordid and sapped
quite past the vital flame
of one's snapping life

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The following comments are for "Cripple's Catharsis"
by seanspacey

I Have No Words
"quite past the vital flame
of one's snapping life"

( Posted by: awhippingflame [Member] On: June 27, 2015 )

Thanks awhippingflame!

( Posted by: seanspacey [Member] On: July 5, 2015 )

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