Saturday, May 28, 2011

poem || Zachary Scott Lawrence

His equine face;
he compounded life upon life,
fluid upon fluid,
his first rule was
to never look –
it flared
and had stored his jacket
moth-eaten and tattered,
walking through the industrial district
by the cotton hood
and had a dragging existence,
unending, unwavering?
There for this chemist of souls,
he strode away,
he bent his eyes,
and it swirled massive,
in her voice came
from the tension in pine boxes:
letters, handwritten books …
what is there was no motion.
That gave him the water
from the switches
for a mission.

He pressed plungers
just a hair too far.
He never asked,
and it was to protect
but to walk towards,
and pulled a mission.
He pulled a steady tune.
He chucked the end
of the lights bounced,
they sang a mission hymn.
She asked.
He pulled a mission.
Sometimes, he flicked it,
with the cotton hood,
walking through the mist
that gave him running envelopes
to save for years,
like new-old-stock.

He pressed
just a hair too far.
The beating rain.
The damp stone walls.
He wiped the guy,
that old barman,
the first job washing dishes
and this chemist of the end
of his long ago.
The white, puerile halls,
cold to the warehouse.
He closed his teeth
with an instant.
It swirled massive,
in the choir rested.
Where will you go?

The white, puerile halls,
sterile, cold
to save for a mission.
Footsteps echo
through the sun.
There at the open door.
It caught up
in the water
from his long ago.

The white, puerile halls,
sterile, cold
to never look –
it was to protect
but decaying,
no face there

she turned,
eyes aglow,
and had been
so long ago.

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