Friday, July 29, 2011

Low and Golden / new poems 2011

I, a Killer

My own ghosts, versions of me I murdered
With my own hands, move outside this window,
Their brittle laughter breaking a cold, quiet night,
Waking birds who fly blindly on toward blinking stars
And a heaven my dead souls can only dream to dance
While I, a killer, still walk and stalk this mortal world alive.

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