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Old 03-03-2014, 10:15 PM View Post #493 (Link)
Julian (Offline)
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Join Date: May 2011
Location: Geneva
Posts: 1,252
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After throwing the garbage, you started to burn the woods.
Talking was never your forte. But your grip on me fills the silence—
even the rustling of dead leaves become mute--when we wrestle.
I wince, but you can pin me to anything, tree skin on the back of
my head sticky on my hair with its mucus.

I’ll fill the silence with your holy name, cup it with tea leaves
drenched in the river cold. You see your face in the cloth of
the forest fire, see your perfection burn into a fleshy mound,

your eyes searching for the knowledge of how the water flows,
knowledge of the riverways. Whoever taught you never had
to brave flames that move like snow. So I climb through
the trees to save you, read through the leaves, only to find that
the fire straightened your curvatures.

The scar upon the back of my head—it reminds me of you. Every time
I touch its ragged lands, I can feel your grip on me. Your eyes
are always watching mine, silence in its own childish wisdom. How
long will you burn to show your face to me?

You follow me, as I wildly run across the river path, until it forms
into a mossy lake, where the slippery stones shine like shattered eggs,
the vessels inside perforated and fused with tree roots. I shiver at
the indifference of your heart, as you stay silent and let your
passion break the monotony of your existence.
						Last edited by Julian; 03-03-2014 at 10:18 PM.
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