Tuesday, March 25, 2008
ASYLUM
Inside this stale vault are long numbers no one is counting--- It is my breathing.
All is bone and grass grown through it;
the slow, rusted rungs are climbed. Sewers hum like black throats I follow
beneath the gutter's teeth.
I am full of the latched breath
of the air-lock, pilgrims turning
blue with envy, or lack of oxygen,
dim tubers which gnaw their way
toward light.
I am the ribbed cavern that completes
the circuit. I am the vacuum that lets
you know you’re not alone.
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1 comment:
nice!!! is that skeleton praying toward the breathe escaped him, or providing it, or is he like a hamster in the eternal ribcage wheel of the soul? spinning wheel's gotta go round, baby...
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