Pendulums
The pained pendulum pushes through the fog
With the ever-crashing splash of rheumatic guilt
Licking at the swinging bronze from below.
We lose God again and again
In the cluttering of thoughts
Like the burnt wings of butterflies
Over-used, over-driven, and
Over-flapped and now here
Festooned to a wheelchair he sits
Staved and dying from stale love.
And needing my help.
Copyright © Matt Caliri | Year Posted 2009
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