Eric Cockrell


Tiny Deaths


you rip the clouds
from the sky itself....
head swaying side to side,
eyes lost in the museum

of feelings too long denied.
babbling odes to the gods,
breathing breath stolen
from a primeval forest....

naming the color
beneath shadows,
your fingers buried
in my hair!

tiny deaths....
postcards written in flesh!

Submitted: Friday, September 09, 2011

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