Wednesday, 3 October 2012

Baskerville's Stanley

He lived a life by the letter,
lying through lipless teeth,
blue underneath.

Sinking through corridors,
like smoke between teeth,
buried down packed snow to sleep.

Cotton bud came out bloody,
and he sighed himself to sleep,
with poems from the good book
that held his hand,
that touched his cheek.

I heard him talk in vases,
echoed spirals right around my mind,
in years that grew like climbers,
a kaleidoscopic narrow mind,
switching up the chambers
 until he forgot how to tell the time.

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