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Are, You, Wanting? Just a pause, a moment spent, or given
Freely transcribing, from sin to sinner, a canvas driven
Paint the whorls of her heart, stroke the brush upon the skin
Where there is no hatred true, a thiefless girl cannot make sin
Snatched from cradle, thrown to grave, err a glance was sent to sky
Listen well to heed the dripping laughter, 'neath dark angel's cry
Blackened men, with faces white, pale as snow, bloodless, tender
Feeling truthful, true to a fatherless heart, wayfared but never render
Sent beneath the speckled band of gold, parched for bluer blood
Never knowing sweet b'low the eyes of wanting 'neath the pristine mud
Wanted for the hands that sing, and ring the bells of clarity
Without seeking fantasy for which a man must cast his heart to charity
Formless as the mind, knowing, rhythm is the beat of spoken word
Coming once not first, nor e'er second, mere but a distant third
Now the milk is sour, and the kittens spit up right beside the bowl
When a child learns to cull her love, thereby she lose her soul
Ever would a man have watched and given, honey, blood and life
The kind that spare itself the ache of waiting, with an eager knife
As the silver flashing sparkles eyes within the empty chest
Knowing ne'er to be remembered by the only ever best
There are some things which I always assumed would grow easier as I grew older. And, to be fair, many of them have; networking with other people, for example. Sharing my work. Speaking my mind. I am desperate to get in trouble, for once, but afraid of what might happen when I do.
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Submitted on
January 14, 2013
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