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Thursday, April 03, 2008

The Hungry Bed

you were every season and the only reason
that came and went in time's play, and the blind faith
of religion that bent the back of fear:

the word incarnate, you were a holy saint
that showed me the way of real soil: not beneath feet
but buried on high, where hope sowed the clouds

to reap the rain from the earth of the sky: the sun up high
burned its midnight oil as fields of angels wept, and the world
died a little without you - a dark Aphrodite,

whose beauty hid in the heads of dew from swollen buds,
and in eyes that left a memory in a heart's hungry bed:
a summer's parting gift in a winter's disguise.

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