Lost Count Of The Days

 

I have a tendency to put people
in boxes in myself. I let them
gather dust and dust them off.
They become much larger than
real.
Echoes against the empty walls.
I let them tumble through
the silence of my broken art.
Their laughter haunts each angle
of their chambers. They shatter
and rebuild themselves, become
legends, and then madness,
become sin and sorrow and cinema.
Don’t tell me it isn’t possible
to love too much,
or too long.
I have a tendency to put people
in boxes and dust them off and gather dust
and dust them off again like records
with no flesh and with no hope
and with no purpose other than
the fact that they have a few
beautiful tracks left I’m sure they must.
I have to keep
them in my box with all their dust
and keep them safe from harm
or humanness.
Don’t tell me it isn’t possible
to love too long,
or too much.

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About A B

"There is all this untouched beauty, the light, the dark, both running through me." -Over The Rhine
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