As He Lays Dying.

Epistles coil about
the hands of a poet, 
drying like the peaches
strewn about his garret,
each a memento of his
seven slivered lives.  
He 
dies, you see,
those orchid limbs
wilted cyan like his
breath that banshees
for glass and spoonfuls
of goodwill 

spirit for spirit, 
equilibrium is the tattoo
on his arms, and
the sanskrit does not
translate because the
verses are tissues
themselves:
his body is a note,
scribbles from a 
theater of blood,
see how
it bears,
it bares.

106 notes

  1. patient-healer reblogged this from theagonistes
  2. blackling reblogged this from burningmuse
  3. steeped-in-ink reblogged this from burningmuse
  4. niglets-in-paris reblogged this from accio221b
  5. chatoyant-rouge reblogged this from burningmuse
  6. namchebazaar reblogged this from burningmuse
  7. accio221b reblogged this from burningmuse
  8. burningmuse reblogged this from theagonistes and added:
    Staff Note: Excellent flow.
  9. floridian-fuck reblogged this from howitzerliterarysociety
  10. emptyspiralforever reblogged this from the-game-is-almost-over
  11. s-emi-colon reblogged this from theagonistes
  12. standingonthecastironshore reblogged this from inthundercloudsabovethecity
  13. urbsantiquafuit reblogged this from howitzerliterarysociety
  14. whoevercaresanymore reblogged this from theagonistes
  15. g0d-c0mp1ex reblogged this from theagonistes
  16. swagriculturalsciences reblogged this from theagonistes