L'Angley S Delmonte

Prelude

Here:
not as in the location.
I know that
chains and bells
sound about the same
when you're blind.
I know that some ends
are glorified
though they're all
invariably
the same.
I know that
every thought that
slinks across the stale styrofoam
of your mind
is a paradox.
I get it.
Here:
as in this place that
takes, takes, takes, and
gives nothing back.
Someone needs to leave
but it's never soon enough
never enough
that they do.
Please, just go, or let me.
years are made of these
seconds, windows,
if you will,
and, however unlikely it is,
windows create actions.
Black one out with your runny paint,
climb in one,
climb out one,
Close the curtains over one
so you can't see
Her standing outside.
Look at their soft white
surface and
that is everything.
Here:
anything is anything
if you think it is then
to you
it is.
What 'is'?
I don't think about it.
I know
that it destroys the very tissues.
It's the slightly damp
children's hands
crawling up your back
pressing up on the soles of your feet
brushing on your cheeks and
Scream.
Here:
We will always be here.
You cannot be there.
For there will be here
as soon as you make it
in your borrowed car
with nothing but an empty tank
an oil change light
again
here.

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, February 20, 2011

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Edgar Allan Poe

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