#43

February 2, 2011 § Leave a comment

If the stones beneath the soles of my feet
have survived throughout the ages
Then truly this ground is holy
and if even through the rubber I can feel the pulse within the roads
Then they are quakes of an Earth beneath saints who are marching
Along the slippery paths of candles that are melting
and the flooded streets of oceans that are emptied
Are we following?

Beneath the lights of a forgotten festival
We are swirled in the rising silence of a dying spirit
And lost on waxy roads that wrap in waning circles until you
Light the wick
And in houses lined with candles
Anxiety is waxing
It is rising
as we’re climbing
into trees
To try to see
And patience it is waning
It is fading
as we’re aching
Just to breath
But I’m singing
with the rhythm
Of the march beneath my feet
Waiting for my entrance
And I’m home between the trees
seeking vision in this night
from wooden perches

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You are currently reading #43 at Authored Angioplasty.

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