Friday, October 22, 2010

1962

you spoke a concrete womb,
a people being born
in a distant land away
from your only son,
they said your temples saved
and praised you when you came
neglected your departure
on a bathroom floor.
but to his eyes that saw
the towers same as they
and edifices stoic,
passion's abstract face,
saw ev'ry mocking ray
and shadow on the wall
remnants of a distant sun,
name without a sound,
every brick a tombstone
failed affections' resting,
and memories of your face
a dead-beat god of one.

2 comments:

Chris Krycho said...

Working hard, but for the life of me I can't get this one worked out.

levi Wall said...

haha. i stole a narrative, that's why.