Tuesday, September 11, 2012

sonnet two hundred seventeen

the savage landscapes
mourning the hours we
stay awake, the moments we
spend apart, clinging

to perpetual resonances
- of names hailed and
spoken in the dark, of
the blackness drowning

the still, impenetrable us,
we arch our embrace so
it may take the shape

of who we dream of
becoming, so it may take
the form of light.

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