poetry critical

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my life I clutched, a winged caster
my fingers possess my brain
and downward dripping black vision
spews a beautiful stain
and now we're at the cusp of it
and now we chart the deep
impulses steer to unmarked spots
and thought inscribes the beat
as I look back upon our path
and see the stained tides
no pier of salt shall I become
for penned in inky depths I ride
although I steer in circle round
forever out and in
the spot I stop perpetually
is where nature begins.

13 Nov 08

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(7 more poems by this author)

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