{Of all lies, art is the least untrue - Flaubert}

Friday, January 13, 2006

The Return

Tumbled like an infant, with closed eyes,
Fists holding the blanket, oh so tightly.

Curled in pain, like a maimed knot,
Sailors of dark sea, overturning surfs.

We return, from overgrown fields,
Years of sick unused me, behind.

A task, a struggle, a judgment, a job,
Lots of arrows to learn to shoot from.

Life smelling like fumes from dead remains,
Still burning, as fresh as we left before.

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