Scraps #1
- MCD
- Oct 7, 2016
- 1 min read
Verdigris on a black umbrella
A circle made of silver masses
A pattern of shoes a black trellis
Bridgework stone, rough passage
I leapt, a shotgun blast of kaleidoscope colours
Two shots, shining and ablaze,
A hurricane inside, my throat a mural of swirling hues
I roar and paint the world
A fathers fathers fathers promise
A dagger wound of twisted dynasty
How can reparations be made when the oft tilled soil still bears the same rotted fruit?
A lot of work went in to convincing you how little I cared about you
I felt like we were magnets
Pulled together so fiercely that we would have to work to be apart,
A join so close that two become one
Or
That we were pushing away from the other, shifting side to side to avoid becoming us by some
force greater than ourselves
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