Born of flesh and ghost

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A poesie, the poet of love: just down in the yard of her day πŸ™πŸ™β€πŸ‘πŸ™

Lance Sheridan

Before the gallow crosses where necks
Are snipped
And dreams are brambled,
Where bones twist into a watery mixture
And blood runs foul,
My heart knew of love- hungered for skin and vein,
Now smells the maggots,
Wringing siphons in my liver.

My throat slakes before the wooden structure, my
Mortal soul
To be struck down by death’s crooked feather;
Remember me, I wrote poetic,
Paper sundered from bones of worms-
Dawn shuts their earthen nothings as they swell,
I soon to hurry to their deepened holes
Down in the yard of her day.

Rejoicing, she dances over my skull,
Blowing shadows
Of a kiss, welshing faith, marrowed fly,
Lying likeness of love,
Quick, this is the real world;
One-sided skin of truths- a loth dream
That kicks the buried from their coffin sack;
Of our two sleepings, I never fell awake
(The photograph is married to the eye).

N35 Born of flesh and ghost

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