Wednesday, March 04, 2009

repentance

I listen to the clamor of a broken chime,
Fingers trying to recreate a broken rhyme.

I used to feel the verse I borne,
But words fell dead in their prime.

Living each moment was I, in the past,
A zombie I move in the frozen time.

I trace and retrace the steps I did tread,
Groveling for marks in grunge and grime.

I suffer not from dementia I know,
Stuck up within my own sweet slime.

Too long has “MIRAGE” for limitations argued,
What follows now is some dead dry rime.

3 comments:

dharmabum said...

sometimes i wonder what worth it is to ever retrace those steps...

this is raw, and hits me smack on the face. how have you been?

Mampi said...

THe feeling of feeling the verse is like walking over broken glass.
But we want to live for that, don't we?

Cynthia said...

I feel a broken-ness, and a space
filled with slices of crystal
bleeding the pulse points, then
writting poems with the life's
blood.

concentric spirals

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