Saturday, October 1, 2016

Diluvian Plain/Philip Byron Oakes

A risk of catching something, from the cure for common
ailments of the mind. A fear a day left to wander through
the halls of famous phobias. And so the beat goes on in
other corners where cranium meets wall. At varying
trajectories throughout the dark history of the early years, 
haunting hallowed chambers of bone and disbelief. The
postcards tell it all. In the window on the war as we know
it up close and yet so far away. Dripping in cobwebs like a
hermit in the surety and sure enough before you know it.
Setting aside a corpulent body of evidence with a bloom
to every gesture, soliciting seconds of the opinion kept in
bondage all these years. Shackled in the jungle of maybe
and please. A varicose vein of thought to appease in the
vicious waters of drip, drip, drip; sure to break the will of
even those born to float through the rains a-coming to
the last ahoy, in balancing act three of the play like it’s
real to the end you call your own.

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