By Marshall Hann
Submitted by blessed23
Date: 2007 Sep 15
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What have we done
to this gift,
this treasure,
this dying bush
that we pluck from the ground
and carry along
on a road
made from clocks and shame,
bound together with sinew
until it feels as if
our hearts
will close their eyes
and break
with serene speed

Life seems
like a fly
clinging, and
crawling across the wings
of a butterfly
in flight

lucky eyes meet
like a cloud of dust
slowly settling to the ground
and we breathe
a little easier
for a singular
peaceful moment

this disease,
this desperation
for acceptance, for love
to hold
to feel warm touch
(skin touching skin:
essence tantalisingly grazing essence)

Is it possible
for tears,
honest, born from agony
and shame
to cure our feeble souls?
(natural holy water)
Or does the only elixir
for all these days
rest in the solemn
and silent beast
of loneliness