I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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Lines on a photograph

The sad-eyed poet, dressed to suffer,

falters at the seam of death,

his grave-drawn soul is torn between

a cross of love to shoulder to the gate,

its granite bride, the stone-cold touch of earth.

At pause in this place where his words unravel

their serpentine elegies of Adam

and fury of the spinning sun,

his tongue is caught between two minds,

falls silent in the face of his last song.

A fretful finger taps the tune,

nervous in the pocket of its tomb;

the living nerve is burned beneath

a wicked and unworthy sack of skin

greedy for the wisdom of escape.