Dark Matter
Stars crash against God's bedpost,
while the dead dream of thunder.
Eyelids cringe under their strike-
The smell of burning wood,
The rot of tomorrow's precipice,
drifts out beyond the grasp
of failing sense.
We are the quarry.
The open gash in the skin of existence,
born to bare the weight of those who
failed to learn to row with the gravity
of cosmic tide.
We crumble ashen pyres into our hearts
and breathe out darkened nebula-
Hope for a birth of chance.
A new beginning.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014
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