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A KNOT IN THE QUAKING



This day’s count as it leaps higher still
allows death to rush in unscathed,
a blinding illumination crests within
the winter of those still living.
And while they’re airborne in that nameless sky,
because only vengeance can offer them comfort
while torture moves in chorus with their stillness,
they shall go in any direction the sightless point.
It is the count that we most remember, all of them,
the living, the dead, and the dying toppling as one.

~

Within all that is observed and undetectable
A memorial service, a knot in the quaking cosmos
The boots and helmets and guns are at attention
They stand ever still staring like creation
The devout sermons trailing them
Leaking a thimble of truth.

~

In the room with the talking box where we gather to be awash in consumption, a tiny flicker adheres to our wonder.

~



© 2014 Mark Richard Prime

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