Sunday, November 28, 2010

The Forgotten

Count the bumps
One – two – three
Braille across the arm

Silver Salamander,
hunger left alone,
you cry the unknown.

Probe the swamp,
brown, murky sludge
untapped memories
lay forgotten

heavy rocks deep in gritty sand
Trail tired fingers across the surface
Empty bubbles percolate,
answer your call.

Four – five – six

It would take strong chains
to haul forgotten fears
from churning depths,
raise the tide,

overflow everything but the source.
So it may seem—the waters are at fault.
They wash away to nothing.

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