Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Tent of Dust

Jewels rubbed raw,
The shavings that drift away on breezes,
Not a glimmer left,
No energy to raise our heads or open eyes
As spirit flies and invention frees us.

Metal beams ripped
In half like snapped and stripped green sticks
Claw at milky windows;
Concrete floors submerged in puddles of detritus.
This is where we practice our tricks.

It is breaking.
Rubble dribbles down its sides, leaving trails
Of dirty breaths.
Feathers flicker in and out of light patches
And dust coats the ground where one ghost still wails.

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