I was winning the race
until I lost. I do not know
myself without the battle bare
and unholy between us,
Poor twisting worm. Your
queenly cleft beautiful between
us, you struggled with salt,
with righteousness, pitiful
Feeling. Not just my chest
will open as a balm on my wound,
my god-played pipe also, mellow and
course. The clown loves discord,
Puffs his base battle unholy
between us, his gross spirit
contemning us from the new:
used, what this had between us.
© 2008-09 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved
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