... addiction ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... experimental ..., ... ghosts ..., ... girl ..., ... kiss ..., ... L.F. ..., ... life ..., ... lips ..., ... love ..., ... music ..., ... pain ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... rain ..., ... relationships ..., ... sins ..., ... summer ..., ... the South ..., ... time ...

foresight

at the end of a barren concrete hall,
sitting alone, while Bon Iver’s acoustic
ticks like vibrant flecks of summer rain
splashing against the windows of a
mind that never landed the last time
she took off, “Oh God” he muses “I
shall never recover from the beauty
in this pain.” and recover he won’t.
it is a tragedy in the finest sense
when one touches through to heaven
only to be pulled back into the gray
haze of these misty flats, where she
and he carved out a life for them-
selves. the vibrancy just never blinds
the eyes, quite like the first time.

and when the moment had cleared, he could
see for miles, and miles, and miles.

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One thought on “foresight

  1. and when the moment had cleared, he could
    see for miles, and miles, and miles.

    At the end of a never ending fall
    writing a poem – but avoiding the ‘cryptic’
    licks that suck the ‘sanity’ from ‘sane’…
    Smashing against ideas of a
    Time that just demanded… one ‘last time’
    He left her – “Oh god” she muses “I
    Don’t think that I’ve ever felt this beauty”

    To be continued…?

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