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DAYS OF NOTHING
By Quentin Smith
I would rather be unborn than die again
Below the iron tombs
Of this mausoluem of a morning.
A fatally wounded day
Lowers its torn wings
Behind my helpless blue eyes
And my cerebrum is caressed
By their soft, bleeding feathers.
But I am not cleansed
Of the glyptic old graffiti
That surrogates as my philosophy.
A meaning to inspire me is as foreign
To my life as the quiet fields of Flanders.
A lifeless wind diffuses through ancient attics
And is reborn in empty canisters of mustard gas.
In newly plowed acres there emerge
Shining, smooth skulls, surrounded
By an ordure of decades of decay;
Their empty sockets stare into the distance
Without any hope or motion.
My consciousness is infected by the entire world.
Let my brain be washed by buckets of rainbows
And let my perceptions of days without meaning
Transform into inscriptions on the vellum pages
Of the flaming queen of lasting purposes.
Written 2002 |