To Peck Upon The Hands Of God
what i see
every morning
on the same
time of
this
wrecking hour
is what pushes
me
to do
all these
writings on
the wall
i pity myself
but what can i do?
it creates all
the drum sounds in
my heart
and i am dancing wildly
in this forest
without the light
of the sun
yet
it caresses my
skin
like the massage
that one cannot forget
and so keeps
on returning
there is nothing
wrong here
nothing evil
it is
the mouth of heaven
speaking
there is no guilt
anymore
but after all these
wriggling
what hovers
in the fields are
the birds of
boredom
and the air of loneliness
keeps
blowing
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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