Held In the Arms of Tragedy
By owlcry
Back then in August sun our eyes extolled, our amusement, still flash, in its fire. Weekends for frolic we circled parks, we feasted, rallied views, You watched me choose the prettiest skyline, where fear has raised me awake, my conception now runs, fast and held by stone, past the polished reins Lady Liberty held. Just now, I see your mother’s face lit up in polyhedrons of the burning sun. When I, come back at last, to where she stood, hand resting on her hip, she smiled, and taught me who Sundays knelt down wild. But, this week someone dug up her grave – gray matter now passed along the way, cut by elytrons of silicate glass. Nothing found but remains petrified like stone I took her home to you. That last long afternoon, your father shot himself and buried a bullet in my head – But he has planted this: You lost both your hearts, everything was gone, so you and I wept and married. My skyline, and weekends gone. Nightmares dream of its soil and you. Sad voices harvest home, still unturned, it holds, and I hold on cut back and they are still gone. Written September 19th, 2001 © on Sep 19 2001 10:06 AM PST 0 • 8
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"Back then in August sun..."