Almost Remorse
The slowest clocks bind the official wound,
An azimuth of the flesh, trust, first contact,
She blinks but no face appears,
Does every mistake ask for such an ordinary end? A seed cannot forget.
Cold, weeping statue of lifetimes, suckle her prayer in the erupting bed.
Fallen beside the tear of the flower blight, lips against the penetrator,
Learn to forgive the righteous terrors for an idle comfort.
What numbing freedom presses the soft lump pulse?
Tongues rally to expose the ghost of private remorse,
Who conceals the dignities of a suction thigh grave.
--2009
Copyright © W.P. Vandam | Year Posted 2010
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