Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Washing Yourself

Washing away with the leaves that fell
Is the letter you gave to me from hell.
Where the prints of paper given at dawn
By the press that presses upon your green lawn,
There memory sticks like a sponge,
Causes me to strike out and lunge;
Like an angry crap that sidles up the sand
And reaches to strangle with sharpened hands,
So too does my heart at the sight of your face.
But it's washed away now, without a trace.
Hole yourself up with a rock that's to big,
Like an oil giant out on the ocean, a rig.
Until you wash yourself clean of the past,
You will never find peace, and will not last.

                        Washing Yourself, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

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