Bundles of Words
Some choose words for back covers
reflecting others’ reflections
my cover is bare
on the front, my lonely name
inside, my bleeding vein
When I read you
I want to be alone
a piece of your soul cupped in my hands
sipping, sipping
as I part your curtain
see you sitting there, deliberating,
choosing words that speak, arching
as bridges spanning continents
A man writes
and having written goes on his way,
leaves his bundle of words
wrapped in a cloth bag
on the growing heap
for dogs and archaeologists to sniff
and pick through
taste, authenticate
My dried blood, mixed with yours
in some anonymous museum of bones
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© Johnmichael Simon
2010
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