Waking

Poets chant forgotten nightmares,
gurges of Virgil’s spinning, so egressed
from sanctity of love in simple terms,
from diesen Erdensphären abspazieren,
und zur Nacht angekommen mit Regen
in den Füssen und Feuer isst das Herz.
Il pleurt, fingers made from trees and
explosions sever their finger nails.
I was a Marcher to James’s beat,
a tin soldier in Jungles and Beasts,
bitten by that daily crime of waking
and that expulsion of my sin, to bathe
clean in forgetful air, all the demons that I sing.

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