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2000-03-00 Z342/3 {Rhyme}

At the crags, at the tooth,
where the rags of my youth lie
tattered and stone-washed,
sloshed round the bowels of that
truth that I knew, that she
threw to the dogs and hyenas.
She lured in the dreamer with
silk and with song to the
hilt of my want, and she
beckoned me on past the
ruin of laughs that I knew in my
head and my heart couldn't last,
so begged for my last little breath to
be drawn in her arms;
in the calm of the murder she brought
to those days fraught with doubt,
thick with cloud, shrouding peak and portcullis.

But the gates to my bliss remained closed,
till a girl wrapped in prose
in the throes of abandon, took
warmly my hand and we kissed and
composed in the mists of our
minds some eulogy –
wistful and white, like the nights
that I spend with no body beside me to bend about,
dreaming in rhymes of reflections I find in
your face and your failings,
losing my grip on the railings of faith as
devoutly I rise, from a dream without
sleep and I creep through my
terminal twilight,
away from the place where the sly might
of melody moves us like wind, and we
Bend and we wind into things of one mind
and one matter.
You shatter the locks and the shackles come
loose from my wrists and lie scattered in
bits on the sand where the jackals stand
mad on hind legs at the edge
of my circles of faith!