poetry

thus, without measure

the age of a soul
never known
by time’s ticking animus
thus, without measure
only this flesh– burns to ash
under the pyre’s spiraling swelter
and an expiry
thus, just more dust, scattered
but shall we ever return?
the way Benny was screaming
his hoary desperation
into the tall night
aye, into the deafened desert
in that moment, I’d believed him
yes, he’d loved her
and isn’t that
all
that any of us
really needs?
to believe
in
something–
before we depart?

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Eric

I've come to write.

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