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A the fever in a scythe girl

saintedmad
saintedmad 10 Feb 2017 Tag: l'ecriture 1 comments, leave your own..



in some field where i love and kill,
i bury my hands in dirt.
there is nothing to say but so much to feel.

the sunflowers lower their holyheavy heads 
with me, in pretty mimicry.
giggling. dying.
      i am 
so full of swifts [watch now]
and crows [believe now]
i could fall into murmur.
touch all my secrets i've stitched to my fingers.
here. and here. and now.
[closer now]
and the clouds come
like girlish sleep.

i refuse the hidden face.
bereft of flesh, rid me of this end, less sky......
let the heavens gaze and dream.............
      i am 

waiting the sudden choir; the grass hopping
around my thighs, my symbiosis bleeding thick
with the years of summer sweat. .

i have built a church with my wet knees.
 
do you still see me?
in the autumn of swaying, 
weeds stick to the atoning
roof of my mouth.

i am 
[hurry now]
a woman at home on the silence. calling 
madly into the existence 
of everything, believing 
in the love of 
some old god who is omnisoft
and coursing the veins that stay me wild.





you float over me and burn

.
.
.












Words: 199 / Updated: 11 Feb 2017 / © Copyright

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ButcherBenji 1 year, 6 months ago New Comment

Perhaps it's too difficult to relate in a comment but this poem stuck with me all day today. There is the anticipation of wet grass and church.yard.work to be done in the distance on this, where the poetry sprouts & grows of its own accord. Spring is near, and the anticipation never gets old. Loved.

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