In the temples, and after the temples
at Crossroads and other ways of
passage,
as men and also as souls of
nothing,
we are riding towards the dawn of
nightfall.
Carried up on false celebrations
, our failing lives,
the loves we've wrecked in
conquering,
the deals we've washed our hands
of,
we are moving into an empty death
like a house where no one lives
***
there is a chance (perhaps in a
whisper
) that will carry out the promise of
the
last dream before this one
and I've watched it run past me
just then
}water in a frozen mile
without redemption{
[This hand ,here, at the end
of me
(by death and by geography)
makes vain attempts towards
you
, by hacking at keys
that do not open doors, or
hold no meaning,
will never be read
by the person for whom they
were made]
Watching all my language collapse
between where it begins and where
it leaves me
I stutter across the page
faintly wishing for more, and
remembering-
At the crossroads we stood still
waiting for the road to choose us.
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